UC-NRLF 


B    M    IDM    Tbl 


iiw«i%:'^^i 


iliPI 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 


RUDYARD    KIPLING. 


(^6c^(n^t^  6^^^^/^^^ /^  /  a^Cu 


O 


H.  M.  CALDWELL  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  BOSTON      ^      ^ 


Copyright,  i8gg 
By  H.  M.  Caldwell  Company 


Phantom  Rickshaw. 


i/'^^'t^O 


PREFACE 

THIS  is  not  exactly  a  book  of  downright 
ghost-stories  as  the  cover  makes  belief.  It 
is  rather  a  collection  of  facts  that  never  quite  ex- 
plained themselves.  All  that  the  collector  is  cer- 
tain of  is,  that  one  man  insisted  upon  dying 
because  he  believed  himself  to  be  haunted;  an- 
other man  either  made  up  a  wonderful  lie  and 
stuck  to  it,  or  visited  a  very  strange  place;  while 
the  third  man  was  indubitably  crucified  by  some 
person  or  persons  unknown,  and  gave  an  extra- 
ordinary account  of  himself. 

The  peculiarity  of  ghost-stories  is  that  they  are 
never  told  first-hand.  I  have  managed,  with  in- 
finite trouble,  to  secure  one  exception  to  this 
rule.  It  is  not  a  very  good  specimen,  but  you 
can  credit  it  from  beginning  to  end.  The  other 
three  stories  you  must  take  on  trust;  as  I  did. 

RuDYARD  Kipling. 


M^833y 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  ....  9 
My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  .  .  •  51 
The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  .  67 
The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  .  .  .109 
**The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'*    .         .  173 


THE  PHANTOM  'RICKSHAW 

May  no  ill  dreams  disturb  my  rest, 
Nor  Powers  of  Darkness  me  molest. 

— Evening  Hymn. 

ONE  of  the  few  advantages  that  India  has 
over  England  is  a  great  Knowability. 
After  five  years'  service  a  man  is  directly  or  in- 
directly acquainted  with  the  two  or  three  hun- 
dred Civilians  in  his  Province,  all  the  Messes  of 
ten  or  twelve  Regiments  and  Batteries,  and  some 
fifteen  hundred  other  people  of  the  non-official 
caste.  In  ten  years  his  knowledge  should  be 
doubled,  and  at  the  end  of  twenty  he  knows,  or 
knows  something  about,  every  Englishman  in 
the  Empire,  and  may  travel  anywhere  and  every- 
where without  paying  hotel-bills. 

Globe-trotters  who  expect  entertainment  as  a 
right,  have,  even  within  my  memory,  blunted 
this  open-heartedness,  but  none  the  less  to-day, 
if  you  belong  to  the  Inner  Circle  and  are  neither 
a  Bear  nor  a  Black  Sheep,  all  houses  are  open  to 
you,  and  our  small  world  is  very,  very  kind  and 
helpful. 

Rickett  of  Kamartha  stayed  with  Polder  of 
II 


12  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

Kumaon  some  fifteen  years  ago.  He  meant  to 
stay  two  nights,  but  was  knocked  down  by 
rheumatic  fever,  and  for  six  weeks  disorganized 
Polder's  establishment,  stopped  Polder's  work, 
and  nearly  died  in  Polder's  bedroom.  Polder 
behaves  as  though  he  had  been  placed  under 
eternal  obligation  by  Rickett,  and  yearly  sends 
the  little  Ricketts  a  box  of  presents  and  toys.  It 
is  the  same  everywhere.  The  men  who  do  not 
take  the  trouble  to  conceal  from  you  their  opin- 
ion that  you  are  an  incompetent  ass^  and  the 
women  who  blacken  your  character  and  mis- 
understand your  wife's  amusements,  will  work 
themselves  to  the  bone  in  your  behalf  if  you  fall 
sick  or  into  serious  trouble. 

Heatherlegh,  the  Doctor,  kept,  in  addition  to  his 
regular  practice,  a  hospital  on  his  private  account 
— an  arrangement  of  loose  boxes  for  Incurables, 
his  friend  called  it — but  it  was  really  a  sort  of 
fitting-up  shed  for  craft  that  had  been  damaged 
by  stress  of  weather.  The  weather  in  India  is 
often  sultry,  and  since  the  tale  of  bricks  is  always 
a  fixed  quantity,  and  the  only  liberty  allowed  is 
permission  to  work  overtime  and  get  no  thanks, 
men  occasionally  break  down  and  become  as 
mixed  as  the  metaphors  in  this  sentence. 

Heatherlegh  is  the  dearest  doctor  that  ever 
was,  and  his  invariable  prescription  to  all  his 
patients  is,  *Mie  low,  go  slow,  and  keep  cool." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  i) 

He  says  that  more  men  are  killed  by  overwork 
than  the  importance  of  this  world  justifies.  He 
maintains  that  overwork  slew  Pansay,  who  died 
under  his  hands  about  three  years  ago.  He  has, 
of  course,  the  right  to  speak  authoritatively,  and 
he  laughs  at  my  theory  that  there  was  a  crack  in 
Pansay's  head  and  a  little  bit  of  the  Dark  World 
came  through  and  pressed  him  to  death.  "  Pan- 
say  went  off  the  handle,"  says  Heatherlegh, 
*' after  the  stimulus  of  long  leave  at  Home.  He 
may  or  he  may  not  have  behaved  like  a  black- 
guard to  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington.  My  notion  is 
that  the  work  of  the  Katabundi  Settlement  ran 
him  off  his  legs,  and  that  he  took  to  brooding 
and  making  much  of  an  ordinary  P.  &  O.  flirta- 
tion. He  certainly  was  engaged  to  Miss  Man- 
nering,  and  she  certainly  broke  off  the  engage- 
ment. Then  he  took  a  feverish  chill  and  all  that 
nonsense  about  ghosts  developed.  Overwork 
started  his  illness,  kept  it  alight,  and  killed  him, 
poor  devil.  Write  him  off  to  the  System — one 
man  to  take  the  work  of  two  and  a  half  men." 

I  do  not  believe  this.  I  used  to  sit  up  with 
Pansay  sometimes  when  Heatherlegh  was  called 
out  to  patients,  and  I  happened  to  be  within 
claim.  The  man  would  make  me  most  unhappy 
by  describing  in  a  low,  even  voice,  the  proces- 
sion that  was  always  passing  at  the  bottom  of 
his  bed.     He  had  a  sick  man's  command  of  Ian- 


14  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

guage.  When  he  r'ecovered  I  suggested  that  he 
should  write  out  the  whole  affair  from  beginning 
to  end,  knowing  that  ink  might  assist  him  to 
ease  his  mind.  When  little  boys  have  learned  a 
new  bad  word  they  are  never  happy  till  they 
have  chalked  it  up  on  a  door.  And  this  also  is 
Literature. 

He  was  in  a  high  fever  while  he  was  writing, 
and  the  blood-and-thunder  Magazine  diction  he 
adopted  did  not  calm  him.  Two  months  after- 
ward he  was  reported  fit  for  duty,  but,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  was  urgently  needed  to  help 
an  undermanned  Commission  stagger  through  a 
deficit,  he  preferred  to  die;  vowing  at  the  last 
that  he  was  hag-ridden.  I  got  his  manuscript 
before  he  died,  and  this  is  his  version  of  the 
affair,  dated  1885: 

My  doctor  tells  me  that  I  need  rest  and  change 
of  air.  It  is  not  improbable  that  I  shall  get  both 
ere  long — rest  that  neither  the  red-coated  mes- 
senger nor  the  midday  gun  can  break,  and 
change  of  air  far  beyond  that  which  any  home- 
ward-bound steamer  can  give  me.  In  the  mean- 
time I  am  resolved  to  stay  where  I  am;  and,  in 
flat  defiance  of  my  doctor's  orders,  to  take  all  the 
world  into  my  confidence.  You  shall  learn  for 
yourselves  the  precise  nature  of  my  malady ;  and 
shall,  too,  judge  for  yourselves  whether  any  man 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  15 

born  of  woman  on  this  weary  earth  was  ever 
so  tormented  as  I. 

Speaking  now  as  a  condemned  criminal  might 
speak  ere  the  drop-bolts  are  drawn,  my  story, 
wild  and  hideously  improbable  as  it  may  appear, 
demands  at  least  attention.  That  it  will  ever 
receive  credence  I  utterly  disbelieve.  Two 
months  ago  I  should  have  scouted  as  mad  or 
drunk  the  man  who  had  dared  tell  me  the  like. 
Two  months  ago  I  was  the  happiest  man  in 
India.  To-day,  from  Peshawur  to  the  sea,  there 
is  no  one  more  wretched.  My  doctor  and  I  are 
the  only  two  who  know  this.  His  explanation 
is,  that  my  brain,  digestion,  and  eyesight  are  all 
slightly  affected;  giving  rise  to  my  frequent  and 
persistent  *' delusions."  Delusions,  indeed!  I 
call  him  a  fool;  but  he  attends  me  still  with  the 
same  unwearied  smile,  the  same  bland  pro- 
fessional manner,  the  same  neatly  trimmed  red 
whiskers,  till  I  begin  to  suspect  that  I  am  an  un- 
grateful, evil-tempered  invalid.  But  you  shall 
judge  for  yourselves. 

Three  years  ago  it  was  my  fortune — my  great 
misfortune — to  sail  from  Gravesend  to  Bombay, 
on  return  from  long  leave,  with  one  Agnes 
Keith-Wessington,  wife  of  an  officer  on  the 
Bombay  side.  It  does  not  in  the  least  concern 
you  to  know  what  manner  of  woman  she  was. 
Be  content  with  the  knowledge  that,  ere  the 


l6  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

voyage  had  ended,  both  she  and  I  were  desper- 
ately and  unreasoningly  in  love  with  one  another. 
Heaven  knows  that  I  can  make  the  admission 
now  without  one  particle  of  vanity.  In  matters 
of  this  sort  there  is  always  one  who  gives  and 
another  who  accepts.  From  the  first  day  of  our 
ill-omened  attachment,  I  was  conscious  that 
Agnes's  passion  was  a  stronger,  a  more  dom- 
inant, and — if  I  may  use  the  expression — a 
purer  sentiment  than  mine.  Whether  she  recog- 
nized the  fact  then,  I  do  not  know.  Afterward 
it  was  bitterly  plain  to  both  of  us. 

Arrived  at  Bombay  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
we  went  our  respective  ways,  to  meet  no  more 
for  the  next  three  or  four  months,  when  my  leave 
and  her  love  took  us  both  to  Simla.  There  we 
spent  the  season  together;  and  there  my  fire  of 
straw  burned  itself  out  to  a  pitiful  end  with 
the  closing  year.  I  attempt  no  excuse.  I  make 
no  apology.  Mrs.  Wessington  had  given  up 
much  for  my  sake,  and  was  prepared  to  give  up 
all.  From  my  own  lips,  in  August,  1882,  she 
learned  that  I  was  sick  of  her  presence,  tired  of 
her  company,  and  weary  of  the  sound  of  her 
voice.  Ninety-nine  women  out  of  a  hundred 
would  have  wearied  of  me  as  I  wearied  of  them ; 
seventy-five  of  that  number  would  have  promptly 
avenged  themselves  by  active  and  obtrusive  flir- 
tation with  other  men.     Mrs.  Wessington  was  the 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  17 

hundredth.  On  her  neither  my  openly  expressed 
aversion  nor  the  cutting  brutahties  with  which  I 
garnished  our  interviews  had  the  least  effect. 

**Jack,  darling!"  was  her  one  eternal  cuckoo 
cry:  'Tm  sure  it's  all  a  mistake — a  hideous  mis- 
take; and  we'll  be  good  friends  again  some  day. 
Please  forgive  me,  Jack,  dear." 

I  was  the  offender,  and  I  knew  it.  That 
knowledge  transformed  my  pity  into  passive  en- 
durance, and,  eventually,  into  blind  hate — the 
same  instinct,  I  suppose,  which  prompts  a  man 
to  savagely  stamp  on  the  spider  he  has  but  half 
killed.  And  with  this  hate  in  my  bosom  the 
season  of  1882  came  to  an  end. 

Next  year  we  met  again  at  Simla — she  with  her 
monotonous  face  and  timid  attempts  at  reconcili- 
ation, and  I  with  loathing  of  her  in  every  fibre 
of  my  frame.  Several  times  I  could  not  avoid 
meeting  her  alone;  and  on  each  occasion  her 
words  were  identically  the  same.  Still  the  un- 
reasoning wail  that  it  was  all  a  ** mistake";  and 
still  the  hope  of  eventually  ''  making  friends."  I 
might  have  seen  had  I  cared  to  look,  that  that 
hope  only  was  keeping  her  alive.  She  grew 
more  wan  and  thin  month  by  month.  You  will 
agree  with  me,  at  least,  that  such  conduct  would, 
have  driven  any  one  to  despair.  It  was  uncalled 
for;  childish;  unwomanly.  I  maintain  that  she 
was  much  to  blame.     And  again,  sometimes,  in 


i'8  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

the  black,  fever-stricken  night-watches,  I  have 
begun  to  think  that  I  might  have  been  a  little 
kinder  to  her.  But  that  really  is  a  ''delusion." 
I  could  not  have  continued  pretending  to  love  her 
when  I  didn't;  could  I  ?  It  would  have  been  un- 
fair to  us  both. 

Last  year  we  met  again — on  the  same  terms  as 
before.  The  same  weary  appeals,  and  the  same 
curt  answers  from  my  lips.  At  least  I  would 
make  her  see  how  wholly  wrong  and  hopeless 
were  her  attempts  at  resuming  the  old  relation- 
ship. As  the  season  wore  on,  we  fell  apart — 
that  is  to  say,  she  found  it  difficult  to  meet  me, 
for  I  had  other  and  more  absorbing  interests  to 
attend  to.  When  I  think  it  over  quietly  in  my 
sick-room,  the  season  of  1884  seems  a  confused 
nightmare  wherein  light  and  shade  were  fan- 
tastically intermingled — my  courtship  of  little 
Kitty  Mannering;  my  hopes,  doubts,  and  fears; 
our  long  rides  together;  my  trembling  avowal  of 
attachment;  her  reply;  and  now  and  again  a 
vision  of  a  white  face  flitting  by  in  the  'rickshaw 
with  the  black  and  white  liveries  I  once  watched 
for  so  earnestly;  the  wave  of  Mrs.  Wessington's 
gloved  hand;  and,  when  she  met  me  alone, 
which  was  but  seldom,  the  irksome  monotony  of 
her  appeal.  I  loved  Kitty  Mannering;  honestly, 
heartily  loved  her,  and  with  my  love  for  her  grew 
my  hatred   for  Agnes.     In   August  Kitty  and  1 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  19 

were  engaged.  The  next  day  I  met  those  ac- 
cursed ''magpie"  jhainpanies  at  the  back  of 
Jakko,  and,  moved  by  some  passing  sentiment  of 
pity,  stopped  to  tell  Mrs.  Wessington  everything. 
She  knew  it  already. 

"So  I  hear  you're  engaged,  Jack  dear."  Then, 
without  a  moment's  pause: — "I'm  sure  it's  all  a 
mistake — a  hideous  mistake.  We  shall  be  as 
good  friends  some  day,  Jack,  as  we  ever  were." 

My  answer  might  have  made  even  a  man  wince. 
It  cut  the  dying  woman  before  me  like  the  blow 
of  a  whip.  "Please  forgive  me,  Jack;  I  didn't 
mean  to  make  you  angry;  but  it's  true,  it's  true! " 

And  Mrs.  Wessington  broke  down  completely. 
I  turned  away  and  left  her  to  finish  her  journey 
in  peace,  feeling,  but  only  for  a  moment  or  two, 
that  I  had  been  an  unutterably  mean  hound.  I 
looked  back,  and  saw  that  she  had  turned  her 
'rickshaw  with  the  idea,  I  suppose,  of  overtaking 
me. 

The  scene  and  its  surroundings  were  photo- 
graphed on  my  memory.  The  rain-swept  sky 
(we  were  at  the  end  of  the  wet  weather),  the 
sodden,  dingy  pines,  the  muddy  road,  and  the 
black  powder-riven  cliffs  formed  a  gloomy  back- 
ground against  which  the  black  and  white  liveries 
of  the  jhampanies,  the  yellow-paneled  'rickshaw 
and  Mrs.  Wessington's  down-bowed  golden  head 
stood  out  clearly.     She  was  holding  her  handker- 


20 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 


chief  in  her  left  hand  and  was  leaning  back  ex- 
hausted against  the  'rickshaw  cushions.  I  turned 
my  horse  up  a  bypath  near  the  Sanjowlie  Reser- 
voir and  literally  ran  away.  Once  I  fancied  I 
heard  a  faint  call  of  "Jack!"  This  may  have 
been  imagination.  I  never  stopped  to  verify  it. 
Ten  minutes  later  I  came  across  Kitty  on  horse- 
back; and,  in  the  delight  of  a  long  ride  v/ith  her, 
forgot  all  about  the  interview. 

A  week  later  Mrs.  Wessington  died,  and  the 
inexpressible  burden  of  her  existence  v/as  re- 
moved from  my  life.  I  went  Plainsward  per- 
fectly happy.  Before  three  months  were  over  I 
had  forgotten  all  about  her,  except  that  at  times 
the  discovery  of  some  of  her  old  letters  reminded 
me  unpleasantly  of  our  bygone  relationship.  By 
January  I  had  disinterred  what  was  left  of  our 
correspondence  from  among  my  scattered  be- 
longings and  had  burned  it.  At  the  beginning  of 
April  of  this  year,  1885,  I  was  at  Simla — semi- 
deserted  Simla — once  more,  and  was  deep  in 
lover's  talks  and  walks  with  Kitty.  It  was  de- 
cided  that  we  should  be  married  at  the  end  of 
June.  You  will  understand,  therefore,  that,  lov- 
ing Kitty  as  I  did,  I  am  not  saying  too  much 
when  I  pronounce  myself  to  have  been,  at  that 
time,  the  happiest  man  in  India. 

Fourteen  delightful  days  passed  almost  befora 
1  noticed  their  flight.     Then,  aroused  to  the  sense 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  21 


of  what  was  proper  among  mortals  circum- 
stanced as  we  were,  I  pointed  out  to  Kitty  that 
an  engagement  ring  was  the  outward  and  visible 
sign  of  her  dignity  as  an  engaged  girl;  and  that 
she  must  forthwith  come  to  Hamilton's  to  be 
measured  for  one.  Up  to  that  moment,  I  give 
you  my  word,  we  had  completely  forgotten  so 
trivial  a  matter.  To  Hamilton's  we  accordingly 
went  on  the  15th  of  April,  1885.  Remember 
that — whatever  my  doctor  may  say  to  the  con- 
trary— I  was  then  in  perfect  health,  enjoying  a 
well-balanced  mind  and  an  absolutely  tranquil 
spirit.  Kitty  and  I  entered  Hamilton's  shop  to- 
gether, and  there,  regardless  of  the  order  of 
affairs,  I  measured  Kitty  for  the  ring  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  amused  assistant.  The  ring  was  a 
sapphire  with  two  diamonds.  We  then  rode  out 
down  the  slope  that  leads  to  the  Combermere 
Bridge  and  Peliti's  shop. 

While  my  Waler  was  cautiously  feeling  his 
way  over  the  loose  shale,  and  Kitty  was  laugh- 
ing and  chattering  at  my  side — while  all  Simla, 
that  is  to  say  as  much  of  it  as  had  then  come 
from  the  Plains,  was  grouped  round  the  Reading- 
room  and  Peliti's  veranda, — I  was  aware  that 
some  one,  apparently  at  a  vast  distance,  was  call- 
ing me  by  my  Christian  name.  It  struck  me  that 
I  had  heard  the  voice  before,  but  when  and  where 
I  could  not  at  once  determine.     In  the  short  space 


22  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

it  took  to  cover  the  road  between  the  path  from 
Hamilton's  shop  and  the  first  plank  of  the  Com- 
bermere  Bridge  I  had  thought  over  half  a  dozen 
people  who  might  have  committed  such  a  sole- 
cism, and  had  eventually  decided  that  it  must  have 
been  singing  in  my  ears.  Immediately  opposite 
Peliti's  shop  my  eye  was  arrested  by  the  sight  of 
four  J hamp antes  in  "magpie"  livery,  pulling  a 
yellow-paneled,  cheap,  bazar  'rickshaw.  In  a 
moment  my  mind  flew  back  to  the  previous  sea- 
son and  Mrs.  Wessington  with  a  sense  of  irrita- 
tion and  disgust.  Was  it  not  enough  that  the 
woman  was  dead  and  done  with,  without  her 
black  and  white  servitors  reappearing  to  spoil  the 
day's  happiness  ?  Whoever  employed  them  now 
I  thought  I  would  call  upon,  and  ask  as  a  per- 
sonal favor  to  change  her  jhampanies'  livery.  I 
would  hire  the  men  myself,  and,  if  necessary, 
buy  their  coats  from  off  their  backs.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  say  here  what  a  flood  of  undesirable 
memories  their  presence  evoked. 

"Kitty,"  I  cried,  ''there  are  poor  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington's  jhampanks  turned  up  again !  I  wonder 
who  has  them  now  .^" 

Kitty  had  known  Mrs.  Wessington  slightly  last 
season,  and  had  always  been  interested  in  the 
sickly  woman. 

"  What  }  Where  ?  "  she  asked.  **  I  can't  see 
them  anywhere." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  2j 

Even  as  she  spoke,  her  horse,  swerving  from  a 
laden  mule,  threw  himself  directly  in  front  of  the 
advancing  'rickshaw.  I  had  scarcely  time  to 
utter  a  word  of  warning  when,  to  my  unutterable 
horror,  horse  and  rider  passed  through  men  and 
carriage  as  if  they  had  been  thin  air. 

"What's  the  matter.^"  cried  Kitty;  ''what 
made  you  call  out  so  foolishly,  Jack?  If  I  am 
engaged  I  don't  want  all  creation  to  know  about 
it.  There  was  lots  of  space  between  the  mule 
and  the  veranda;  and,  if  you  think  I  can't  ride 
—    There!" 

Whereupon  wilful  Kitty  set  off,  her  dainty 
little  head  in  the  air,  at  a  hand-gallop  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Band-stand;  fully  expecting,  as 
she  herself  afterward  told  me,  that  I  should  fol- 
low her.  What  was  the  matter.?  Nothing  in- 
deed. Either  that  I  was  mad  or  drunk,  or  that 
Simla  was  haunted  with  devils.  I  reined  in  my 
impatient  cob,  and  turned  round.  The  'rickshaw 
had  turned  too,  and  now  stood  immediately 
facing  me,  near  the  left  railing  of  the  Comber- 
mere  Bridge. 

''Jack!  Jack,  darling!"  (There  was  no  mis- 
take about  the  words  this  time:  they  rang 
through  my  brain  as  if  they  had  been  shouted  in 
my  ear.)  "It's  some  hideous  mistake,  I'm  sure. 
Please  forgive  me.  Jack,  and  let's  be  friends 
again." 


24  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

The  rickshaw-hood  had  fallen  back,  and  in- 
side, as  I  hope  and  pray  daily  for  the  death  I 
dread  by  night,  sat  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington, 
handkerchief  in  hand,  and  golden  head  bowed 
on  her  breast. 

How  long  I  stared  motionless  I  do  not  know. 
Finally,  I  was  aroused  by  my  syce  taking  the 
Waler's  bridle  and  asking  whether  1  was  ill. 
From  the  horrible  to  the  commonplace  is  but 
a  step.  I  tumbled  off  my  horse  and  dashed, 
half  fainting,  into  Peliti's  for  a  glass  of  cherry- 
brandy.  There  two  or  three  couples  were  gath- 
ered round  the  coffee-tables  discussing  the  gos- 
sip of  the  day.  Their  trivialities  were  more 
comforting  to  me  just  then  than  the  consolations 
of  religion  could  have  been.  I  plunged  into  the 
midst  of  the  conversation  at  once;  chatted, 
laughed,  and  jested  with  a  face  (when  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  it  in  a  mirror)  as  white  and  drawn 
as  that  of  a  corpse.  Three  or  four  men  noticed 
my  condition;  and,  evidently  setting  it  down  to 
the  results  of  over-many  pegs,  charitably  en- 
deavored to  draw  me  apart  from  the  rest  of  the 
loungers.  But  I  refused  to  be  led  away.  I 
•wanted  the  company  of  my  kind — ^^as  a  child 
rushes  into  the  midst  of  the  dinner-party  after  a 
fright  in  the  dark.  I  must  have  talked  for  about 
ten  minutes  or  so,  though  it  seemed  an  eternity 
to  me,  when  1  heard  Kitty's  clear  voice  outside 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  25 

inquiring  for  me.  In  another  minute  she  had 
entered  the  shop,  prepared  to  roundly  upbraid 
me  for  failing  so  signally  in  my  duties.  Some- 
thing in  my  face  stopped  her. 

"Why,  Jack,"  she  cried,  *'what  have  you 
been  doing?  What  has  happened.^  Are  you 
ill }  "  Thus  driven  into  a  direct  lie,  I  said  that 
the  sun  had  been  a  little  too  much  for  me.  It 
was  close  upon  five  o'clock  of  a  cloudy  April 
afternoon,  and  the  sun  had  been  hidden  all  day. 
I  saw  my  mistake  as  soon  as  the  words  were  out 
of  my  mouth:  attempted  to  recover  it;  blun- 
dered hopelessly  and  followed  Kitty  in  a  regal 
rage,  out  of  doors,  amid  the  smiles  of  my 
acquaintances.  I  made  some  excuse  (I  have  for- 
gotten what)  on  the  score  of  my  feeling  faint; 
and  cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  leaving  Kitty  to 
finish  the  ride  by  herself. 

In  my  room  I  sat  down  and  tried  calmly  to 
reason  out  the  matter.  Here  was  I,  Theobald 
Jack  Pansay,  a  well-educated  Bengal  Civilian  in 
the  year  of  grace  1885,  presumably  sane,  cer- 
tainly healthy,  driven  in  terror  from  my  sweet- 
heart's side  by  the  apparition  of  a  woman  who 
had  been  dead  and  buried  eight  months  ago. 
These  were  facts  that  I  could  not  blink.  Noth- 
ing was  further  from  my  thought  than  any 
memory  of  Mrs.  Wessington  when  Kitty  and  I 
left  Hamilton's  shop.     Nothing  was  more  utterly 


26  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

commonplace  than  the  stretch  of  wail  opposite 
Peliti's.  It  was  broad  daylight.  The  road  was 
full  of  people;  and  yet  here,  look  you,  in  de- 
fiance of  every  law  of  probability,  in  direct  out- 
rage of  Nature's  ordinance,  there  had  appeared  to 
me  a  face  from  the  grave. 

Kitty's  Arab  had  gone  through  the  'rickshaw: 
so  that  my  first  hope  that  some  woman  marvel- 
ously  like  Mrs.  Wessington  had  hired  the  car- 
riage and  the  coolies  with  their  old  livery  was 
lost.  Again  and  again  I  went  round  this  tread- 
mill of  thought;  and  again  and  again  gave  up 
baffled  and  in  despair.  The  voice  was  as  inex- 
plicable as  the  apparition.  1  had  originally  some 
wild  notion  of  confiding  it  all  to  Kitty;  of  beg- 
ging her  to  marry  me  at  once;  and  in  her  arms 
defying  the  ghostly  occupant  of  the  'rickshaw. 
'*  After  all,"  I  argued,  ''the  presence  of  the 
'rickshav/  is  in  itself  enough  to  prove  the  exist- 
ence of  a  spectral  illusion.  One  may  see  ghosts 
of  men  and  women,  but  surely  never  of  coolies 
and  carriages.  The  whole  thing  is  absurd. 
Fancy  the  ghost  of  a  hillman!" 

Next  morning  1  sent  a  penitent  note  to  Kitty, 
imploring  her  to  overlook  my  strange  conduct  of 
the  previous  afternoon.  My  Divinity  was  still 
very  wroth,  and  a  personal  apology  was  neces- 
sary. 1  explained,  with  a  fluency  born  of  night- 
long pondering  over  a  falsehood,  that  I  had  been 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  27 

attacked  with  a  sudden  palpitation  of  the  heart — 
the  result  of  indigestion.  This  eminently  prac- 
tical solution  had  its  effect;  and  Kitty  and  I  rode 
out  that  afternoon  with  the  shadow  of  my  first 
lie  dividing  us. 

Nothing  would  please  her  save  a  canter  round 
Jakko.  With  my  nerves  still  unstrung  from  the 
previous  night  I  feebly  protested  against  the  no- 
tion, suggesting  Observatory  Hill,  Jutogh,  the 
Boileaugunge  road — anything  rather  than  the 
Jakko  round.  Kitty  was  angry  and  a  little  hurt: 
so  I  yielded  from  fear  of  provoking  further  mis- 
understanding, and  we  set  out  together  toward 
Chota  Simla.  We  walked  a  greater  part  of  the 
way,  and,  according  to  our  custom,  cantered 
from  a  mile  or  so  below  the  Convent  to  the 
stretch  of  level  road  by  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir. 
The  wretched  horses  appeared  to  fly,  and  my 
heart  beat  quicker  and  quicker  as  we  neared  the 
crest  of  the  ascent.  My  mind  had  been  full  of 
Mrs.  Wessington  all  the  afternoon;  and  every 
inch  of  the  Jakko  road  bore  witness  to  our  old- 
time  walks  and  talks.  The  bowlders  were  full 
of  it;  the  pines  sang  it  aloud  overhead;  the 
rain-fed  torrents  giggled  and  chuckled  unseen 
over  the  shameful  story;  and  the  wind  in  my 
ears  chanted  the  iniquity  aloud. 

As  a  fitting  climax,  in  the  middle  of  the  level 
men  call  the  Ladies'  Mile  the  Horror  was  awaiting 


28  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

me.  No  other  'rickshaw  was  in  sight — only  the 
four  black  and  white  jhampanies,  the  yellow- 
paneled  carriage,  and  the  golden  head  of  the 
woman  within — all  apparently  just  as  I  had  left 
them  eight  months  and  one  fortnight  ago!  For 
an  instant  I  fancied  that  Kitty  must  see  what  I 
saw — we  were  so  marvelously  sympathetic  in 
all  things.  Her  next  words  undeceived  me — 
"Not  a  soul  in  sight!  Come  along,  Jack,  and  I'll 
race  you  to  the  Reservoir  buildings!  "  Her  wiry 
little  Arab  was  off  like  a  bird,  my  Waler  follow- 
ing close  behind,  and  in  this  order  we  dashed 
under  the  cliffs.  Half  a  minute  brought  us 
within  fifty  yards  of  the  'rickshaw.  1  pulled  my 
Waler  and  fell  back  a  little.  The  'rickshaw  was 
directly  in  the  middle  of  the  road ;  and  once  more 
the  Arab  passed  through  it,  my  horse  following. 
"Jack!  Jack  dear!  Please  forgive  me,"  rang 
with  a  wail  in  my  ears,  and,  after  an  interval: — 
"  It's  all  a  mistake,  a  hideous  mistake! " 

I  spurred  my  horse  like  a  man  possessed. 
When  I  turned  my  head  at  the  Reservoir  works, 
the  black  and  white  liveries  were  still  waiting — 
patiently  waiting — under  the  grey  hillside,  and 
the  wind  brought  me  a  mocking  echo  of  the 
words  1  had  just  heard.  Kitty  bantered  me  a 
good  deal  on  my  silence  throughout  the  remain- 
der of  the  ride.  I  had  been  talking  up  till  then 
wildly  and  at  random.     To  save  my  life  I  could 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 


29 


not  speak  afterward  naturally,  and  from  San- 
jowlie  to  the  Church  wisely  held  my  tongue. 

1  was  to  dine  with  the  Mannerings  that  night, 
and  had  barely  time  to  canter  home  to  dress. 
On  the  road  to  Elysium  Hill  I  overheard  two  men 
talking  together  in  the  dusk. — "It's  a  curious 
thing,"  said  one,  "  how  completely  all  trace  of  it 
disappeared.  You  know  my  wife  was  insanely 
fond  of  the  woman  ('never  could  see  anything  in 
her  myself),  and  wanted  me  to  pick  up  her  old 
'rickshaw  and  coolies  if  they  were  to  be  got  for 
love  or  money.  Morbid  sort  of  fancy  I  call  it; 
but  I've  got  to  do  what  the  Menisahib  tells  me. 
Would  you  believe  that  the  man  she  hired  it 
from  tells  me  that  all  four  of  the  men — they  were 
brothers — died  of  cholera  on  the  way  to  Hard- 
war,  poor  devils;  and  the  'rickshaw  has  been 
broken  up  by  the  man  himself.  Told  me  he 
never  used  a  dead  Memsahib's  'rickshaw.  'Spoiled 
his  luck.  Queer  notion,  wasn't  it  ?  Fancy  poor 
little  Mrs.  Wessington  spoiling  any  one's  luck 
except  her  own!  "  I  laughed  aloud  at  this  point; 
and  my  laugh  jarred  on  me  as  I  uttered  it.  So 
there  were  ghosts  of  'rickshaws  after  all,  and 
ghostly  employments  in  the  other  world!  How 
much  did  Mrs.  Wessington  give  her  men  ?  What 
were  their  hours  ?    Where  did  they  go  ? 

And  for  visible  answer  to  my  last  question  I 
saw  the  infernal  Thing  blocking  my  path  in  the 


30  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

twilight.  The  dead  travel  fast,  and  by  short  cuts 
unknown  to  ordinary  coolies.  1  laughed  aloud  a 
second  time  and  checked  my  laughter  suddenly, 
for  I  was  afraid  I  was  going  mad.  Mad  to  a 
certain  extent  I  must  have  been,  for  I  recollect 
that  1  reined  in  my  horse  at  the  head  of  the  'rick- 
shaw, and  politely  wished  Mrs.  Wessington 
**  Good-evening."  Her  answer  was  one  I  knew 
only  too  well.  I  listened  to  the  end;  and  replied 
that  I  had  heard  it  all  before,  but  should  be  de- 
lighted if  she  had  anything  further  to  say.  Some 
malignant  devil  stronger  than  I  must  have  en- 
tered into  me  that  evening,  for  I  have  a  dim  rec- 
ollection of  talking  the  commonplaces  of  the 
day  for  five  minutes  to  the  Thing  in  front  of  me. 

*'Mad  as  a  hatter,  poor  devil — or  drunk.  Max, 
try  and  get  him  to  come  home." 

Surely ///^/ was  not  Mrs.  Wessington's  voice! 
The  two  men  had  overheard  me  speaking  to  the 
empty  air,  and  had  returned  to  look  after  me. 
They  were  very  kind  and  considerate,  and  from 
their  words  evidently  gathered  that  I  was  ex- 
tremely drunk.  I  thanked  them  confusedly  and 
cantered  away  to  my  hotel,  there  changed,  and 
arrived  at  the  Mannerings'  ten  minutes  late.  I 
pleaded  the  darkness  of  the  night  as  an  excuse; 
was  rebuked  by  Kitty  for  my  unlover-like  tardi- 
ness; and  sat  down. 

The  conversation  had  already  become  general; 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 


31 


and  under  cover  of  it,  I  was  addressing  some 
tender  small  talk  to  my  sweetheart  when  I  was 
aware  that  at  the  further  end  of  the  table  a  short 
red-whiskered  man  was  describing,  with  much 
broidery,  his  encounter  with  a  mad  unknown 
that  evening. 

A  fev/  sentences  convinced  me  that  he  was  re- 
peating the  incident  of  half  an  hour  ago.  In  the 
middle  of  the  story  he  looked  round  for  applause, 
as  professional  story-tellers  do,  caught  my  eye, 
and  straightway  collapsed.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment's awkward  silence,  and  the  red-whiskered 
man  muttered  something  to  the  effect  that  he 
had  *' forgotten  the  rest,"  thereby  sacrificing  a 
reputation  as  a  good  story-teller  which  he  had 
built  up  for  six  seasons  past.  I  blessed  him 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  and— went  on 
with  my  fish. 

In  the  fulness  of  time  that  dinner  came  to  an 
end;  and  with  genuine  regret  I  tore  myself  away 
from  Kitty— as  certain  as  I  was  of  my  own  ex- 
istence that  It  would  be  waiting  for  me  outside 
the  door.  The  red-whiskered  man,  who  had 
been  introduced  to  me  as  Doctor  Heatherlegh  of 
Simla,  volunteered  to  bear  me  company  as  far  as 
our  roads  lay  together.  I  accepted  his  offer  with 
gratitude. 

My  instinct  had  not  deceived  me.  It  lay  in 
readiness  in  the  Mall,  and,  in  what  seemed  devil- 


^  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

ish  mockery  of  our  ways,  with  a  lighted  head- 
lamp. The  red-whiskered  man  went  to  the 
point  at  once,  in  a  manner  that  showed  he  had 
been  thinking  over  it  all  dinner  time. 

'M  say,  Pansay,  what  the  deuce  was  the  mat- 
ter with  you  this  evening  on  the  Elysium  road  ?  " 
The  suddenness  of  the  question  wrenched  an  an- 
swer from  me  before  I  was  aware. 

"That!  "  said  I,  pointing  to  It. 

*'  That  may  be  either  D.  T.  or  Eyes  for  aught  i 
know.  Now  you  don't  liquor.  I  saw  as  much 
at  dinner,  so  it  can't  be  D.  T.  There's  nothing 
whatever  where  you're  pointing,  though  you're 
sweating  and  trembling  with  fright  like  a  scared 
pony.  Therefore,  I  conclude  that  it's  Eyes.  And 
I  ought  to  understand  all  about  them.  Come 
along  home  with  me.  I'm  on  the  Blessington 
lower  road." 

To  my  intense  delight  the  'rickshaw  instead  of 
waiting  for  us  kept  about  twenty  yards  ahead — 
and  this,  too,  whether  we  walked,  trotted,  or 
cantered.  In  the  course  of  that  long  night  ride  I 
had  told  my  companion  almost  as  much  as  I  have 
told  you  here. 

*'Well,  you've  spoiled  one  of  the  best  tales 
Tve  ever  laid  tongue  to,"  said  he,  "but  I'll  for- 
give you  for  the  sake  of  what  you've  gone 
through.  Now  come  home  and  do  what  I  tell 
you;  and  when  I've  cured  you,  young  man,  let 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  ^^ 

this  be  a  lesson  to  you  to  steer  clear  of  women 
and  indigestible  food  till  the  day  of  your  death." 

The  'rickshaw  kept  steady  in  front;  and  my 
red-whiskered  friend  seemed  to  derive  great 
pleasure  from  my  account  of  its  exact  where- 
abouts. 

*'Eyes,  Pansay — all  Eyes,  Brain,  and  Stomach. 
And  the  greatest  of  these  three  is  Stomach. 
You've  too  much  conceited  Brain,  too  little 
Stomach,  and  thoroughly  unhealthy  Eyes.  Get 
your  Stomach  straight  and  the  rest  follows. 
And  all  that's  French  for  a  hver  pill.  I'll  take 
sole  medical  charge  of  you  from  this  hour!  for 
you're  too  interesting  a  phenomenon  to  be  passed 
over." 

By  this  time  we  were  deep  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Blessington  lower  road  and  the  'rickshaw 
came  to  a  dead  stop  under  a  pine-clad,  over- 
hanging shale  cliff.  Instinctively  I  halted  too, 
giving  my  reason.  Heatherlegh  rapped  out  an 
oath. 

''Now,  if  you  think  I'm  going  to  spend  a  cold 
night  on  the  hillside  for  the  sake  of  a  Stomach- 
cum-^X2i\n-cum-^ye  illusion  .  .  .  Lord,  ha' 
mercy!     What's  that?" 

There  was  a  muffled  report,  a  blinding  smother 
of  dust  just  in  front  of  us,  a  crack,  the  noise  of 
rent  boughs,  and  about  ten  yards  of  the  cliflf-side 
— pines,  undergrowth,  and  all — slid  down  into 


^4  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

the  road  below,  completely  blocking  it  up.  The 
uprooted  trees  swayed  and  tottered  for  a  mo- 
ment like  drunken  giants  in  the  gloom,  and  then 
fell  prone  among  their  fellows  with  a  thunderous 
crash.  Our  two  horses  stood  motionless  and 
sweating  with  fear.  As  soon  as  the  rattle  of 
falling  earth  and  stone  had  subsided,  my  com- 
panion muttered: — "Man,  if  we'd  gone  forward 
we  should  have  been  ten  feet  deep  in  our  graves 
by  now.  '  There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and 
earth.'  .  .  .  Come  home,  Pansay,  and  thank 
God.     I  want  a  peg  badly." 

We  retraced  our  way  over  the  Church  Ridge, 
and  I  arrived  at  Dr.  Heatherlegh's  house  shortly 
after  midnight. 

His  attempts  toward  my  cure  commenced 
almost  immediately,  and  for  a  week  I  never  left 
his  sight.  Many  a  time  in  the  course  of  that 
week  did  1  bless  the  good-fortune  which  had 
thrown  me  in  contact  with  Simla's  best  and 
kindest  doctor.  Day  by  day  my  spirits  grew 
lighter  and  more  equable.  Day  by  day,  too,  I 
became  more  and  more  inclined  to  fall  in  with 
Heatherlegh's  "spectral  illusion"  theory,  im- 
plicating eyes,  brain,  and  stomach.  I  wrote  to 
Kitty,  telling  her  that  a  slight  sprain  caused  by  a 
fall  from  my  horse  kept  me  indoors  for  a  few 
days;  and  that  1  should  be  recovered  before  she 
had  time  to  regret  my  absence. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  35 

Heatherlegh's  treatment  was  simple  to  a  degree. 
It  consisted  of  liver  pills,  cold-water  baths,  and 
strong  exercise,  taken  in  the  dusk  or  at  early 
dawn — for,  as  he  sagely  observed: — "A  man 
with  a  sprained  ankle  doesn't  walk  a  dozen  miles 
a  day,  and  your  young  woman  might  be  wonder- 
ing if  she  saw  you." 

At  the  end  of  the  week,  after  much  exami- 
nation of  pupil  and  pulse,  and  strict  injunctions 
as  to  diet  and  pedestrianism,  Heatherlegh  dis- 
missed me  as  brusquely  as  he  had  taken  charge 
of  me.  Here  is  his  parting  benediction : — ''  Man, 
I  certify  to  your  mental  cure,  and  that's  as  much 
as  to  say  I've  cured  most  of  your  bodily  ailments. 
Now,  get  your  traps  out  of  this  as  soon  as  you 
can;  and  be  off  to  make  love  to  Miss  Kitty." 

I  was  endeavoring  to  express  my  thanks  for 
his  kindness.     He  cut  me  short. 

"  Don't  think  I  did  this  because  I  like  you.  I 
gather  that  you've  behaved  like  a  blackguard  all 
through.  But,  all  the  same,  you're  a  phenome- 
non, and  as  queer  a  phenomenon  as  you  are  a 
blackguard.  No!" — checking  me  a  second  time 
— "  not  a  rupee  please.  Go  out  and  see  if  you 
can  find  the  eyes-brain-and-stomach  business 
again.  I'll  give  you  a  lakh  for  each  time  you 
see  it." 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  in  the  Mannerings' 
drawing-room  with  Kitty — drunk  with  the  in- 


36  The  Pha^itom  'Rickshaw 

toxication  of  present  happiness  aild  the  fore- 
knowledge that  I  should  never  more  be  troubled 
with  Its  hideous  presence.  Strong  in  the  sense 
of  my  new-found  security,  I  proposed  a  ride 
at  once;  and,  by  preference,  a  canter  round 
Jakko. 

Never  had  I  felt  so  well,  so  overladen  with 
vitality  and  mere  animal  spirits,  as  I  did  on  the 
afternoon  of  the  30th  of  April.  Kitty  was  de- 
lighted at  the  change  in  my  appearance,  and 
complimented  me  on  it  in  her  delightfully  frank 
and  outspoken  manner.  We  left  the  Manner- 
ings'  house  together,  laughing  and  talking,  and 
cantered  along  the  Chota  Simla  road  as  of  old. 

I  was  in  haste  to  reach  the  Sanjowlie  Reservoir 
and  there  make  my  assurance  doubly  sure.  The 
horses  did  their  best,  but  seemed  all  too  slow  to 
my  impatient  mind.  Kitty  was  astonished  at  my 
boisterousness.  ' '  Why,  Jack ! "  she  cried  at  last, 
"you  are  behaving  like  a  child.  What  are  you 
doing  }  " 

We  were  just  below  the  Convent,  and  from 
sheer  wantonness  I  was  making  my  Waler 
plunge  and  curvet  across  the  road  as  I  tickled  it 
with  the  loop  of  my  riding-whip. 

''Doing.?"  I  answered;  ''nothing,  dear. 
That's  just  it.  If  you'd  been  doing  nothing 
for  a  week  except  lie  up,  you'd  be  as  riotous 
as  I. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  yj 

"  *  Singing  and  murmuring  in  your  feastful  mirth, 
Joying  to  feel  yourself  alive  ; 
Lord  over  Nature,  Lord  of  the  visible  Earth, 
Lord  of  the  senses  five.'  " 

My  quotation  was  hardly  out  of  my  lips  before 
we  had  rounded  the  corner  above  the  Convent; 
and  a  few  yards  further  on  could  see  across  to 
Sanjowlie.  In  the  centre  of  the  level  road  stood 
the  black  and  white  liveries,  the  yellow-paneled 
'rickshaw,  and  Mrs.  Keith-Wessington.  I  pulled 
up,  looked,  rubbed  my  eyes,  and,  I  believe,  must 
have  said  something.  The  next  thing  I  knew 
was  that  I  was  lying  face  downward  on  the 
road,  with  Kitty  kneeling  above  me  in  tears. 

''Has  it  gone,  child!"  I  gasped.  Kitty  only 
wept  more  bitterly. 

''Has  what  gone,  Jack  dear?  what  does  it  all 
mean.?  There  must  be  a  mistake  somewhere. 
Jack.  A  hideous  mistake."  Her  last  words 
brought  me  to  my  feet — mad — raving  for  the 
time  being. 

"Yes,  there  is  a  mistake  somewhere,"  I  re- 
peated, "a  hideous  mistake.  Come  and  look  at 
It." 

I  have  an  indistinct  idea  that  I  dragged  Kitty 
by  the  wrist  along  the  road  up  to  where  It  stood, 
and  implored  her  for  pity's  sake  to  speak  to  It; 
to  tell  It  that  we  were  betrothed;  that  neither 
Death  nor  Hell  could  break  the  tie  between  us: 


^8  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

and  Kitty  only  knows  how  much  more  to  the 
same  effect.  Now  and  again  1  appealed  passion- 
ately to  the  Terror  in  the  'rickshaw  to  bear  wit- 
ness to  all  I  had  said,  and  to  release  me  from  a 
torture  that  was  killing  me.  As  I  talked  1  sup- 
pose 1  must  have  told  Kitty  of  my  old  relations 
with  Mrs.  Wessington,  for  I  saw  her  listen  in- 
tently with  white  face  and  blazing  eyes. 

''Thank  you,  Mr.  Pansay,"  she  said,  "that's 
^^//^  enough.     Syce  ghora  Ido." 

The  syces,  impassive  as  Orientals  always  are, 
had  come  up  with  the  recaptured  horses;  and  as 
Kitty  sprang  into  her  saddle  I  caught  hold  of  the 
bridle,  entreating  her  to  hear  me  out  and  for- 
give. My  answer  was  the  cut  of  her  riding- 
whip  across  my  face  from  mouth  to  eye,  and  a 
word  or  two  of  farewell  that  even  now  I  cannot 
write  down.  So  I  judged,  and  judged  rightly, 
that  Kitty  knew  all;  and  I  staggered  back  to  the 
side  of  the  'rickshaw.  My  face  was  cut  and 
bleeding,  and  the  blow  of  the  riding-whip  had 
raised  a  livid  blue  wheal  on  it.  I  had  no  self- 
respect.  Just  then,  Heatherlegh,  who  must  have 
been  following  Kitty  and  me  at  a  distance,  can- 
tered up. 

"Doctor,"  I  said,  pointing  to  my  face,  "here's 
Miss  Mannering's  signature  to  my  order  of  dis- 
missal and  .  .  .  I'll  thank  you  for  that  lakh 
as  soon  as  convenient." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  39 

Heatherlegh's  face,  even  in  my  abject  misery, 
moved  me  to  laughter. 

'•'I'll  stake  my  professional  reputation" — he 
began.  "Don't  be  a  fool,"  1  whispered.  "I've 
lost  my  life's  happiness  and  you'd  better  take  me 
home." 

As  I  spoke  the  'rickshaw  was  gone.  Then  I 
lost  all  knowledge  of  what  was  passing.  The 
crest  of  Jakko  seemed  to  heave  and  roll  like  the 
crest  of  a  cloud  and  fall  in  upon  me. 

Seven  days  later  (on  the  7th  of  May,  that  is  to 
say)  1  was  aware  that  1  was  lying  in  Heather- 
legh's room  as  weak  as  a  little  child.  Heather- 
legh  was  watching  me  intently  from  behind  the 
papers  on  his  writing-table.  His  first  words 
were  not  encouraging;  but  I  was  too  far  spent 
to  be  much  moved  by  them. 

"Here's  Miss  Kitty  has  sent  back  your  letters. 
You  corresponded  a  good  deal,  you  young  peo- 
ple. Here's  a  packet  that  looks  like  a  ring,  and 
a  cheerful  sort  of  a  note  from  Mannering  Papa, 
which  I've  taken  the  liberty  of  reading  and  burn- 
ing.   The  old  gentleman's  not  pleased  with  you." 

"And  Kitty.?"  I  asked,  dully. 

"Rather  more  drawn  than  her  father  from 
what  she  says.  By  the  same  token  you  must 
have  been  letting  out  any  number  of  queer  remi- 
niscences just  before  I  met  you.  'Says  that  a 
man  who  would  have  behaved  to  a  woman  as 


40  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

you  did  to  Mrs.  Wessington  ought  to  kill  him- 
self out  of  sheer  pity  for  his  kind.  She's  a  hot- 
headed little  virago,  your  mash.  'Will  have  it 
too  that  you  were  suffering  from  D.  T.  when  that 
row  on  the  Jakko  road  turned  up.  'Says  she'll 
die  before  she  ever  speaks  to  you  again." 

I  groaned  and  turned  over  on  the  other  side. 

*'Now  you've  got  your  choice,  my  friend. 
This  engagement  has  to  be  broken  off;  and  the 
Mannerings  don't  want  to  be  too  hard  on  you. 
Was  it  broken  through  D.  T.  or  epileptic  fits.? 
Sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a  better  exchange  unless 
you'd  prefer  hereditary  insanity.  Say  the  word 
and  I'll  tell  'em  it's  fits.  All  Simla  knows  about 
that  scene  on  the  Ladies'  Mile.  Come!  I'll  give 
you  five  minutes  to  think  over  it." 

During  those  five  minutes  I  believe  that  I  ex- 
plored thoroughly  the  lowest  circles  of  the  In- 
ferno which  it  is  permitted  man  to  tread  on  earth. 
And  at  the  same  time  I  myself  was  watching 
myself  faltering  through  the  dark  labyrinths  of 
doubt,  misery,  and  utter  despair.  I  wondered,  as 
Heatherlegh  in  his  chair  might  have  wondered, 
which  dreadful  alternative  I  should  adopt.  Pres- 
ently I  heard  myself  answering  in  a  voice  that  I 
hardly  recognized, — 

**  They're  confoundedly  particular  about  mo- 
rality in  these  parts.  Give  'em  fits,  Heatherlegh, 
and  my  love.     Now  let  me  sleep  a  bit  longer." 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  41 

Then  my  two  selves  joined,  and  it  was  only  I 
(half  crazed,  devil-driven  1)  that  tossed  in  my 
bed,  tracing  step  by  step  the  history  of  the  past 
month. 

''But  1  am  in  Simla,"  I  kept  repeating  to  my- 
self. -'1,  Jack  Pansay,  am  in  Simla,  and  there 
are  no  ghosts  here.  It's  unreasonable  of  that 
woman  to  pretend  there  are.  Why  couldn't 
Agnes  have  left  me  alone  ?  1  never  did  her  any 
harm.  It  might  just  as  well  have  been  me  as 
Agnes.  Only  I'd  never  have  come  back  on  pur- 
pose to  kill  her.  Why  can't  I  be  left  alone — left 
alone  and  happy  ?  " 

It  was  high  noon  when  I  first  awoke:  and  the 
sun  was  low  in  the  sky  before  I  slept — slept  as 
the  tortured  criminal  sleeps  on  his  rack,  too  worn 
to  feel  further  pain. 

Next  day  I  could  not  leave  my  bed.  Heather- 
legh  told  me  in  the  morning  that  he  had  received 
an  answer  from  Mr.  Mannering,  and  that,  thanks 
to  his  (Heatherlegh's)  friendly  offices,  the  story 
of  my  affliction  had  traveled  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  Simla,  where  I  was  on  all  sides 
much  pitied. 

"And  that's  rather  more  than  you  deserve,"  he 
concluded,  pleasantly,  '"though  the  Lord  knows 
you've  been  going  through  a  pretty  severe  mill. 
Never  mind;  we'll  cure  you  yet,  you  perverse 
phenomenon." 


42  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

I  declined  firmly  to  be  cured.  "You've  been 
much  too  good  to  me  already,  old  man,"  said  1; 
*'but  1  don't  think  I  need  trouble  you  further." 

In  my  heart  I  knew  that  nothing  Heatherlegh 
could  do  would  lighten  the  burden  that  had  been 
laid  upon  me. 

With  that  knowledge  came  also  a  sense  of 
hopeless,  impotent  rebellion  against  the  unrea- 
sonableness of  it  all.  There  were  scores  of  men 
no  better  than  I  whose  punishments  had  at  least 
been  reserved  for  another  world;  and  I  felt  that 
it  was  bitterly,  cruelly  unfair  that  I  alone  should 
have  been  singled  out  for  so  hideous  a  fate.  This 
mood  would  in  time  give  place  to  another  where 
it  seemed  that  the  'rickshaw  and  I  were  the  only 
realities  in  a  world  of  shadows;  that  Kitty  was  a 
ghost;  that  Mannering,  Heatherlegh,  and  all  the 
other  men  and  women  I  knew  were  all  ghosts; 
and  the  great,  grey  hills  themselves  but  vain 
shadows  devised  to  torture  me.  From  mood  to 
mood  1  tossed  backward  and  forward  for  seven 
weary  days;  my  body  growing  daily  stronger 
and  stronger,  until  the  bedroom  looking-glass 
told  me  that  I  had  returned  to  everyday  life,  and 
was  as  other  men  once  more.  Curiously  enough 
my  face  showed  no  signs  of  the  struggle  I  had 
gone  through.  It  was  pale  indeed,  but  as  ex- 
pressionless and  commonplace  as  ever.  I  had 
expected  some  permanent  alteration — visible  evi- 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  43 

dence  of  the  disease  that  was  eating  me  away. 
I  found  nothing. 

On  the  15th  of  May  I  left  Heatherlegh's  house 
at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning;  and  the  instinct 
of  the  bachelor  drove  me  to  the  Club.  There  I 
found  that  every  man  knew  my  story  as  told  by 
Heatherlegh,  and  was,  in  clumsy  fashion,  abnor- 
mally kind  and  attentive.  Nevertheless  I  recog- 
nized that  for  the  rest  of  my  natural  life  I  should 
be  among  but  not  of  my  fellows;  and  I  envied 
very  bitterly  indeed  the  laughing  coolies  on  the 
Mall  below.  I  lunched  at  the  Club,  and  at  four 
o'clock  wandered  aimlessly  down  the  Mall  in  the 
vague  hope  of  meeting  Kitty.  Close  to  the 
Band-stand  the  black  and  white  liveries  joined 
me;  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Wessington's  old  appeal  at 
my  side.  I  had  been  expecting  this  ever  since  I 
came  out;  and  was  only  surprised  at  her  delay. 
The  phantom  'rickshaw  and  I  went  side  by  side 
along  the  Chota  Simla  road  in  silence.  Close  to 
the  bazar,  Kitty  and  a  man  on  horseback  over- 
took and  passed  us.  For  any  sign  she  gave  I 
might  have  been  a  dog  in  the  road.  She  did  not 
even  pay  me  the  compliment  of  quickening  her 
pace;  though  the  rainy  afternoon  had  served  for 
an  excuse. 

So  Kitty  and  her  companion,  and  I  and  my 
ghostly  Light-o'-Love,  crept  round  Jakko  in 
couples.     The  road  was  streaming  with  water; 


44  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

the  pines  dripped  like  roof-pipes  on  the  rocks  be- 
low, and  the  air  was  full  of  fine,  driving  rain. 
Two  or  three  times  I  found  myself  saying  to  my- 
self almost  aloud:  "  I'm  Jack  Pansay  on  leave  at 
Simla — at  Simla  !  Everyday,  ordinary  Simla.  I 
mustn't  forget  that — 1  mustn't  forget  that."  Then 
I  would  try  to  recollect  some  of  the  gossip  I  had 
heard  at  the  Club:  the  prices  of  So-and-So's 
horses — anything,  in  fact,  that  related  to  the 
workaday  Anglo-Indian  world  I  knew  so  well. 
I  even  repeated  the  multiplication-table  rapidly  to 
myself,  to  make  quite  sure  that  I  was  not  taking 
leave  of  my  senses.  It  gave  me  much  comfort; 
and  must  have  prevented  my  hearing  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington  for  a  time. 

Once  more  I  wearily  climbed  the  Convent 
slope  and  entered  the  level  road.  Here  Kitty 
and  the  man  started  off  at  a  canter,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  Mrs.  Wessington.  ''Agnes," 
said  1,  "will  you  put  back  your  hood  and  tell 
me  what  it  all  means.?"  The  hood  dropped 
noiselessly,  and  I  was  face  to  face  with  my 
dead  and  buried  mistress.  She  was  wearing 
the  dress  in  which  I  had  last  seen  her  alive; 
carried  the  same  tiny  handkerchief  in  her  right 
hand;  and  the  same  cardcase  in  her  left.  (A 
woman  eight  months  dead  with  a  cardcase!)  I 
had  to  pin  myself  down  to  the  multiplication- 
table,  and  to  set  both  hands  on  the  stone  parapet 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  45 

of  the  road,  to  assure  myself  that  that  at  least 
was  real. 

"Agnes,"  I  repeated,  "for  pity's  sake  tell  me 
what  it  all  means."  Mrs.  Wessington  leaned 
forward,  with  that  odd,  quick  turn  of  the  head  I 
used  to  know  so  well,  and  spoke. 

If  my  story  had  not  already  so  madly  over- 
leaped the  bounds  of  all  human  belief  1  should 
apologize  to  you  now.  As  1  know  that  no  one 
— no,  not  even  Kitty,  for  whom  it  is  written  as 
some  sort  of  justification  of  my  conduct — will 
believe  me,  I  will  go  on.  Mrs.  Wessington 
spoke  and  I  walked  with  her  from  the  Sanjowlie 
road  to  the  turning  below  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's  house  as  I  might  walk  by  the  side  of  any 
living  woman's  'rickshaw,  deep  in  conversation. 
The  second  and  most  tormenting  of  my  moods 
of  sickness  had  suddenly  laid  hold  upon  me,  and 
like  the  Prince  in  Tennyson's  poem,  "1  seemed 
to  move  amid  a  world  of  ghosts."  There  had 
been  a  garden-party  at  the  Commander-in- 
Chief's,  and  we  two  joined  the  crowd  of  home- 
ward-bound folk.  As  I  saw  them  then  it  seemed 
that  they  were  the  shadows — impalpable,  fantas- 
tic shadows — that  divided  for  Mrs.  Wessington's 
'rickshaw  to  pass  through.  What  we  said  dur- 
ing the  course  of  that  weird  interview  I  cannot 
—indeed,  I  dare  not— tell.  Heatherlegh's  com- 
ment would  have  been  a  short  laugh  and  a  re- 


46  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

mark  that  I  had  been  "  mashing  a  brain-eye-and- 
stomach  chimera."  It  was  a  ghastly  and  yet  in 
some  indefinable  way  a  marvelously  dear  experi- 
ence. Could  it  be  possible,  I  wondered,  that  I 
was  in  this  life  to  woo  a  second  time  the  woman 
I  had  killed  by  my  own  neglect  and  cruelty  } 

I  met  Kitty  on  the  homeward  road — a  shadow 
among  shadows. 

If  1  were  to  describe  all  the  incidents  of  the 
next  fortnight  in  their  order,  my  story  would 
never  come  to  an  end;  and  your  patience  would 
be  exhausted.  Morning  after  morning  and  even- 
ing after  evening  the  ghostly  'rickshaw  and  I 
used  to  wander  through  Simla  together.  Wher- 
ever I  went  there  the  four  black  and  white  liver- 
ies followed  me  and  bore  me  company  to  and 
from  my  hotel.  At  the  Theatre  I  found  them 
amid  the  crowd  of  yeWingj'hampain'es;  outside 
the  Club  veranda,  after  a  long  evening  of  whist; 
at  the  Birthday  Ball,  waiting  patiently  for  my  re- 
appearance; and  in  broad  daylight  when  I  went 
calling.  Save  that  it  cast  no  shadow,  the  'rick- 
shaw was  in  every  respect  as  real  to  look  upon  as 
one  of  wood  and  iron.  More  than  once,  indeed, 
I  have  had  to  check  myself  from  warning  some 
hard-riding  friend  against  cantering  over  it. 
More  than  once  I  have  walked  down  the  Mall 
deep  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Wessington  to 
the  unspeakable  amazement  of  the  passers-by. 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw  47 

Before  I  had  been  out  and  about  a  week  I 
learned  that  the  "fit"  theory  had  been  discarded 
in  favor  of  insanity.  However,  I  made  no  change 
in  my  mode  of  life.  1  called,  rode,  and  dined  out 
as  freely  as  ever.  I  had  a  passion  for  the  society 
of  my  kind  which  1  had  never  felt  before;  I 
hungered  to  be  among  the  realities  of  life;  and 
at  the  same  time  1  felt  vaguely  unhappy  when  I 
had  been  separated  too  long  from  my  ghostly 
companion.  It  would  be  almost  impossible  to 
describe  my  varying  moods  from  the  15th  of 
May  up  to  to-day. 

The  presence  of  the  'rickshaw  filled  me  by 
turns  with  horror,  blind  fear,  a  dim  sort  of  pleas- 
ure, and  utter  despair.  1  dared  not  leave  Simla; 
and  I  knew  that  my  stay  there  was  killing  me. 
I  knew,  moreover,  that  it  was  my  destiny  to  die 
slowly  and  a  little  every  day.  My  only  anxiety 
was  to  get  the  penance  over  as  quietly  as  might 
be.  Alternately  I  hungered  for  a  sight  of  Kitty 
and  watched  her  outrageous  flirtations  with  my 
successor — to  speak  more  accurately,  my  succes- 
sors— with  amused  interest.  She  was  as  much 
out  of  my  life  as  1  was  out  of  hers.  By  day  I 
wandered  with  Mrs.  Wessington  almost  content. 
By  night  I  implored  Heaven  to  let  me  return  to 
the  world  as  I  used  to  know  it.  Above  all  these 
varying  moods  lay  the  sensation  of  dull,  numbing 
wonder  that  the  Seen  and  the  Unseen  should 


48  The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 

mingle  so  strangely  on  this  earth  to  hound  one 
poor  soul  to  its  grave. 


August  27. — Heatherlegh  has  been  indefatiga- 
ble in  his  attendance  on  me;  and  only  yesterday 
told  me  that  I  ought  to  send  in  an  application  for 
sick  leave.  An  application  to  escape  the  com- 
pany of  a  phantom !  A  request  that  the  Govern- 
ment would  graciously  permit  me  to  get  rid  of 
five  ghosts  and  an  airy  'rickshaw  by  going  to 
England!  Heatherlegh's  proposition  moved  me 
to  almost  hysterical  laughter.  1  told  him  that  I 
should  await  the  end  quietly  at  Simla;  and  I  am 
sure  that  the  end  is  not  far  off.  Believe  me  that 
I  dread  its  advent  more  than  any  word  can  say; 
and  I  torture  myself  nightly  with  a  thousand 
speculations  as  to  the  manner  of  my  death. 

Shall  1  die  in  my  bed  decently  and  as  an  Eng- 
lish gentleman  should  die;  or,  in  one  last  walk 
on  the  Mall,  will  my  soul  be  wrenched  from  me 
to  take  its  place  forever  and  ever  by  the  side  of 
that  ghastly  phantasm  }  Shall  1  return  to  my  old 
lost  allegiance  in  the  next  world,  or  shall  I  meet 
Agnes  loathing  her  and  bound  to  her  side  through 
all  eternity  .^  Shall  we  two  hover  over  the  scene 
of  our  lives  till  the  end  of  Time  }  As  the  day  of 
my  death  draws  nearer,  the  intense  horror  that 
all  living  flesh  feels  toward  escaped  spirits  from 


The  Phantom  'Rickshaw 


49 


beyond  the  grave  grows  more  and  more  power- 
ful. It  is  an  awful  thing  to  go  down  quick 
among  the  dead  with  scarcely  one-half  of  your 
life  completed,  it  is  a  thousand  times  more 
awful  to  wait  as  1  do  in  your  midst,  for  I  know 
not  what  unimaginable  terror.  Pity  me,  at  least 
on  the  score  of  my  ''delusion,"  for  1  knov/  you 
will  never  believe  what  1  have  written  here.  Yet 
as  surely  as  ever  a  man  was  done  to  death  by  the 
Powers  of  Darkness  I  am  that  man. 

In  justice,  too,  pity  her.  For  as  surely  as  ever 
woman  was  killed  by  man,  I  killed  Mrs.  Wes- 
sington.  And  the  last  portion  of  my  punishment 
is  even  now  upon  me. 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 


MY  OWN  TRUE  GHOST  STORY 

As  I  came  through  the  Desert  thus  it  was — 
As  I  came  through  the  Desert. 

—  The  City  of  Dreadful  Night. 

SOMEWHERE  in  the  Other  World,  where 
there  are  books  and  pictures  and  plays 
and  shop-windows  to  look  at,  and  thousands 
of  men  who  spend  their  lives  in  building  up  all 
four,  lives  a  gentleman  who  writes  real  stories 
about  the  real  insides  of  people;  and  his  name 
is  Mr.  Walter  Besant.  But  he  will  insist  upon 
treating  his  ghosts  —  he  has  published  half  a 
workshopful  of  them — with  levity.  He  makes 
his  ghost-seers  talk  familiarly,  and,  in  some  cases, 
flirt  outrageously,  with  the  phantoms.  You  may 
treat  anything,  from  a  Viceroy  to  a  Vernacular 
Paper,  with  levity ;  but  you  must  behave  rever- 
ently toward  a  ghost,  and  particularly  an  Indian 
one. 

There  are,  in  this  land,  ghosts  who  take  the 
form  of  fat,  cold,  pobby  corpses,  and  hide  in  trees 
near  the  roadside  till  a  traveler  passes.  Then 
they  drop  upon  his  neck  and  remain.  There  are 
also  terrible  ghosts  of  women  who  have  died  in 
child-bed.  These  wander  along  the  pathways  at 
53 


54  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

dusk,  or  hide  in  the  crops  near  a  village,  and  call 
seductively.  But  to  answer  their  call  is  death  in 
this  world  and  the  next.  Their  feet  are  turned 
backward  that  all  sober  men  may  recognize 
them.  There  are  ghosts  of  little  children  who 
have  been  thrown  into  wells.  These  haunt  well- 
curbs  and  the  fringes  of  jungles,  and  wail  under 
the  stars,  or  catch  women  by  the  wrist  and  beg 
to  be  taken  up  and  carried.  These  and  the 
corpse-ghosts,  however,  are  only  vernacular  ar- 
ticles and  do  not  attack  Sahibs.  No  native  ghost 
has  yet  been  authentically  reported  to  have 
frightened  an  Englishman;  but  many  English 
ghosts  have  scared  the  life  out  of  both  white  and 
black. 

Nearly  every  other  Station  owns  a  ghost. 
There  are  said  to  be  two  at  Simla,  not  counting 
the  woman  who  blows  the  bellows  at  Syree  dak- 
bungalow  on  the  Old  Road;  Mussoorie  has  a 
house  haunted  of  a  very  lively  Thing;  a  White 
Lady  is  supposed  to  do  night-watchman  round  a 
house  in  Lahore;  Dalhousie  says  that  one  of  her 
houses  "repeats"  on  autumn  evenings  all  the  in- 
cidents of  a  horrible  horse-and-precipice  acci- 
dent; Murree  has  a  merry  ghost,  and,  now  that 
she  has  been  swept  by  cholera,  will  have  room 
for  a  sorrowful  one;  there  are  Officers'  Quarters 
in  Mian  Mir  whose  doors  open  without  reason, 
and  whose  furniture  is  guaranteed  to  creak,  not 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  55' 

with  the  heat  of  June  but  with  the  weight  of  In- 
visibles who  come  to  lounge  in  the  chair;  Pesha- 
wur  possesses  houses  that  none  will  willingly 
rent;  and  there  is  something — not  fever — wrong 
with  a  big  bungalow  in  Allahabad.  The  older 
Provinces  simply  bristle  with  haunted  houses, 
and  march  phantom  armies  along  their  main 
thoroughfares. 

Some  of  the  dak-bungalows  on  thb  Grand 
Trunk  Road  have  handy  little  cemeteries  in  their 
compound — witnesses  to  the  "changes  and 
chances  of  this  mortal  life "  in  the  days  when 
men  drove  from  Calcutta  to  the  Northwest. 
These  bungalows  are  objectionable  places  to  put 
up  in.  They  are  generally  very  old,  always 
dirty,  while  the  khansamah  is  as  ancient  as  the 
bungalow.  He  either  chatters  senilely,  or  falls 
into  the  long  trances  of  age.  In  both  moods  he 
is  useless.  If  you  get  angry  with  him,  he  refers 
to  some  Sahib  dead  and  buried  these  thirty  years, 
and  says  that  when  he  was  in  that  Sahib's  service 
not  a  khansamah  in  the  Province  could  touch 
him.  Then  he  jabbers  and  mows  and  trembles 
and  fidgets  among  the  dishes,  and  you  repent  of 
your  irritation. 

In  these  dak-bungalows,  ghosts  are  most  likely 
to  be  found,  and  when  found,  they  should  be 
made  a  note  of.  Not  long  ago  it  was  my  busi- 
ness to  live  in  dak-buno alows.     I  never  inhabited 


c6  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

the  same  house  for  three  nights  running,  and 
grew  to  be  learned  in  the  breed.  I  Hved  in 
Government-built  ones  with  red  brick  walls  and 
rail  ceilings,  an  inventory  of  the  furniture  posted 
in  every  room,  and  an  excited  snake  at  the 
threshold  to  give  welcome.  1  lived  in  "con- 
verted "  ones — old  houses  officiating  as  dak-bun- 
galows—where nothing  was  in  its  proper  place 
and  there  wasn't  even  a  fowl  for  dinner.  1  lived 
in  second-hand  palaces  where  the  wind  blew 
through  open-work  marble  tracery  just  as  un- 
comfortably as  through  a  broken  pane.  I  lived 
in  dak-bungalows  where  the  last  entry  in  the 
visitors'  book  was  fifteen  months  old,  and  where 
they  slashed  off  the  curry-kid's  head  with  a 
sword.  It  was  my  good-luck  to  meet  all  sorts  of 
men,  from  sober  traveling  missionaries  and 
deserters  flying  from  British  Regiments,  to 
drunken  loafers  who  threw  whiskey  bottles  at  all 
who  passed;  and  my  still  greater  good-fortune 
just  to  escape  a  maternity  case.  Seeing  that  a 
fair  proportion  of  the  tragedy  of  our  lives  out 
here  acted  itself  in  dak-bungalows,  1  wondered 
that  I  had  met  no  ghosts.  A  ghost  that  would 
voluntarily  hang  about  a  dak-bungalow  would 
be  mad  of  course;  but  so  many  men  have  died 
mad  in  dak-bungalows  that  there  must  be  a  fair 
percentage  of  lunatic  ghosts. 
In  due  time  I  found  my  ghost,  or  ghosts  rather. 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  57 

for  there  were  two  of  them.  Up  till  that  hour  I 
had  sympathized  with  Mr.  Besant's  method  of 
handling  them,  as  shown  in  "  The  Strange  Case 
of  Mr.  Liter  aft  and  other  Stories."  I  am  now 
in  the  Opposition. 

We  will  call  the  bungalow  Katmal  dak-bunga- 
low. But  that  was  the  smallest  part  of  the 
horror.  A  man  with  a  sensitive  hide  has  no 
right  to  sleep  in  dak-bungalows.  He  should 
marry.  Katmal  dak-bungalow  was  old  and 
rotten  and  unrepaired.  The  floor  was  of  worn 
brick,  the  walls  were  filthy,  and  the  windows 
were  nearly  black  with  grime.  .  It  stood  on  a  by- 
path largely  used  by  native  Sub-Deputy  Assist- 
ants of  all  kinds,  from  Finance  to  Forests;  but 
real  Sahibs  were  rare.  The  khansamah,  who 
was  nearly  bent  double  with  old  age,  said  so. 

When  I  arrived,  there  was  a  fitful,  undecided 
rain  on  the  face  of  the  land,  accompanied  by  a 
restless  wind,  and  every  gust  made  a  noise  like 
the  rattling  of  dry  bones  in  the  stiff  toddy-palms 
outside.  The  khansamah  completely  lost  his 
head  on  my  arrival.  He  had  served  a  Sahib  once. 
Did  I  know  that  Sahib  ?  He  gave  me  the  name 
of  a  well-known  man  who  has  been  buried  for 
more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  showed 
me  an  ancient  daguerreotype  of  that  man  in  his 
prehistoric  youth.  I  had  seen  a  steel  engraving 
of  him  at  the  head  of  a  double  volume  of  Mem- 


58  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

oirs  a  month  before,  and  I  felt  ancient  beyond 
telling. 

The  day  shut  in  and  the  hhansamah  went  to 
get  me  food.  He  did  not  go  through  the  pre- 
tence of  calling  it  ''khana" — man's  victuals. 
He  said  ''raUib,''  and  that  means,  among  other 
things,  "grub"— dog's  rations.  There  was  no 
insult  in  his  choice  of  the  term.  He  had  for- 
gotten the  other  word,  1  suppose. 

While  he  was  cutting  up  the  dead  bodies  of 
animals,  1  settled  myself  down,  after  exploring 
the  dak-bungalow.  There  were  three  rooms, 
beside  my  own,  which  was  a  corner  kennel,  each 
giving  into  the  other  through  dingy  white  doors 
fastened  with  long  iron  bars.  The  bungalow 
was  a  very  solid  one,  but  the  partition-walls  of 
the  rooms  were  almost  jerry-built  in  their  flimsi- 
ness.  Every  step  or  bang  of  a  trunk  echoed 
from  my  room  down  the  other  three,  and  every 
footfall  came  back  tremulously  from  the  far 
walls.  For  this  reason  1  shut  the  door.  There 
were  no  lamps — only  candles  in  long  glass  shades. 
An  oil  wick  was  set  in  the  bath-room. 

For  bleak,  unadulterated  misery  that  dak- 
bungalow  was  the  worst  of  the  many  that  I  had 
ever  set  foot  in.  There  was  no  fireplace,  and 
the  windows  would  not  open;  so  a  brazier  of 
charcoal  would  have  been  useless.  The  rain  and. 
the  wind  splashed  and  gurgled  and  moaned  round 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  59 

the  house,  and  the  toddy-palms  rattled  and 
roared.  Half  a  dozen  jackals  went  through  the 
compound  singing,  and  a  hyena  stood  afar  off 
and  mocked  them.  A  hyena  would  convince  a 
Sadducee  of  the  Resurrection  of  the  Dead— the 
worst  sort  of  Dead.  Then  came  the  ratub — a 
curious  meal,  half  native  and  half  English  in 
composition — with  the  old  hhansamah  babbling 
behind  my  chair  about  dead  and  gone  English 
people,  and  the  wind-blown  candles  playing 
shadow-bo-peep  with  the  bed  and  the  mosquito- 
curtains.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  dinner  and 
evening  to  make  a  man  think  of  every  single  one 
of  his  past  sins,  and  of  all  the  others  that  he  in- 
tended to  commit  if  he  lived. 

Sleep,  for  several  hundred  reasons,  was  not 
easy.  The  lamp  in  the  bath-room  threw  the 
most  absurd  shadows  into  the  room,  and  the 
wind  was  beginning  to  talk  nonsense. 

Just  when  the  reasons  were  drowsy  with 
blood-sucking  I  heard  the  regular — ''  Let-us-take- 
and-heave-him-over"  grunt  of  doolie-bearers  in 
the  compound.  First  one  doolie  came  in,  then  a 
second,  and  then  a  third.  I  heard  the  doolies 
dumped  on  the  ground,  and  the  shutter  in  front 
of  my  door  shook.  "  That's  some  one  trying  to 
come  in,"  1  said.  But  no  one  spoke,  and  I  per- 
suaded myself  that  it  was  the  gusty  wind.  The 
shutter  of  the  room  next  to  mine  was  attacked. 


6o  My  Own  Trite  Ghost  Story 

flung  back,  and  the  inner  door  opened.  *'  That's 
some  Sub-Deputy  Assistant,"  I  said,  "  and  he  has 
brought  his  friends  with  him.  Now  they'll  talk 
and  spit  and  smoke  for  an  hour." 

But  there  were  no  voices  and  no  footsteps» 
No  one  was  putting  his  luggage  into  the  next 
room.  The  door  shut,  and  1  thanked  Providence 
that  I  was  to  be  left  in  peace.  But  1  was  curious 
to  know  where  the  doolies  had  gone.  1  got  out 
of  bed  and  looked  into  the  darkness.  There  was 
never  a  sign  of  a  doolie.  Just  as  I  was  getting 
into  bed  again,  I  heard,  in  the  next  room,  the 
sound  that  no  man  in  his  senses  can  possibly  mis- 
take— the  whir  of  a  billiard  ball  down  the  length 
of  the  slates  when  the  striker  is  stringing  for 
break.  No  other  sound  is  like  it.  A  minute 
afterward  there  was  another  whir,  and  1  got  into 
bed.  I  was  not  frightened — indeed  I  was  not. 
I  was  very  curious  to  know  what  had  become  of 
the  doolies.     I  jumped  into  bed  for  that  reason. 

Next  minute  I  heard  the  double  click  of  a  can- 
non and  my  hair  sat  up.  It  is  a  mistake  to  say 
that  hair  stands  up.  The  skin  of  the  head  tight- 
ens and  you  can  feel  a  faint,  prickly  bristling  all 
over  the  scalp.     That  is  the  hair  sitting  up. 

There  was  a  whir  and  a  click,  and  both  sounds 
could  only  have  been  made  by  one  thing — a  bil- 
liard ball.  I  argued  the  matter  out  at  great 
length  with  myself;  and  the  more  I  argued  the 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  6i 

less  probable  it  seemed  that  one  bed,  one  table, 
and  two  chairs — all  the  furniture  of  the  room 
next  to  mine— could  so  exactly  duplicate  the 
sounds  of  a  game  of  billiards.  After  another 
cannon,  a  three-cushion  one  to  judge  by  the  whir, 
I  argued  no  more.  I  had  found  my  ghost  and 
would  have  given  worlds  to  have  escaped  from 
that  dak-bungalow.  1  listened,  and  with  each 
listen  the  game  grew  clearer.  There  was  whir 
on  whir  and  click  on  click.  Sometimes  there 
was  a  double  click  and  a  whir  and  another  click. 
Beyond  any  sort  of  doubt,  people  were  playing 
billiards  in  the  next  room.  And  the  next  room 
was  not  big  enough  to  hold  a  billiard  table! 

Between  the  pauses  of  the  wind  I  heard  the 
game  go  forward — stroke  after  stroke.  1  tried 
to  believe  that  1  could  not  hear  voices ;  but  that 
attempt  was  a  failure. 

Do  you  know  what  fear  is  ?  Not  ordinary  fear 
of  insult,  injury  or  death,  but  abject,  quivering 
dread  of  something  that  you  cannot  see — fear 
that  dries  the  inside  of  the  mouth  and  half  of  the 
throat — fear  that  makes  you  sweat  on  the  palms 
of  the  hands,  and  gulp  in  order  to  keep  the 
uvula  at  work?  This  is  a  fine  Fear— a  great 
cowardice,  and  must  be  felt  to  be  appreciated. 
The  very  improbability  of  billiards  in  a  dak- 
bungalow  proved  the  reality  of  the  thing.  No 
man— drunk  or  sober— could  imagine  a  game  at 


62  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

billiards,  or  invent  the  spitting  crack  of  a  ''screw- 
cannon." 

A  severe  course  of  dak-bungalows  lias  this 
disadvantage— it  breeds  infinite  credulity.  If  a 
man  said  to  a  confirmed  dak-bungalow-haunter: 
— "There  is  a  corpse  in  the  next  room,  and 
there's  a  mad  girl  in  the  next  but  one,  and  the 
woman  and  man  on  that  camel  have  just  eloped 
from  a  place  sixty  miles  away,"  the  hearer  would 
not  disbelieve  because  he  would  know  that  noth- 
ing is  too  wild,  grotesque,  or  horrible  to  happen 
in  a  dak-bungalow. 

This  credulity,  unfortunately,  extends  to 
ghosts.  A  rational  person  fresh  from  his  own 
house  would  have  turned  on  his  side  and  slept. 
I  did  not.  So  surely  as  I  was  given  up  as  a  bad 
carcass  by  the  scores  of  things  in  the  bed  because 
the  bulk  of  my  blood  was  in  my  heart,  so  surely 
did  1  hear  every  stroke  of  a  long  game  at  bil- 
liards played  in  the  echoing  room  behind  the 
iron-barred  door.  iMy  dominant  fear  was  that 
the  players  might  want  a  maker.  It  was  an  ab- 
surd fear;  because  creatures  who  could  play  in 
the  dark  would  be  above  such  superfluities.  I 
only  know  that  that  was  my  terror;  and  it  was 
real. 

After  a  long  long  while,  the  game  stopped,  and 
the  door  banged.  I  slept  because  I  was  dead  tired. 
Otherwise  I  should  have  preferred  to  have  kept 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  63 

awake.  Not  for  everything  in  Asia  would  I  have 
dropped  the  door-bar  and  peered  into  the  dark  of 
the  next  room. 

When  the  morning  came,  I  considered  that  I 
had  done  well  and  wisely,  and  inquired  for  the 
means  of  departure. 

*'  By  the  way,  kkansamah,"  I  said,  "what  were 
those  three  doolies  doing  in  my  compound  in  the 
night  ?  " 

"There  were  no  doolies,"  said  the  khansamah. 

I  went  into  the  next  room  and  the  daylight 
streamed  through  the  open  door.  I  was  im- 
mensely brave.  I  would,  at  that  hour,  have 
played  Black  Pool  v/ith  the  owner  of  the  big 
Black  Pool  down  below. 

"  Has  this  place  always  been  a  dak-bunga- 
low .^  "  1  asked. 

"  No,"  said  the  khansamah.  "  Ten  or  twenty 
years  ago,  I  have  forgotten  how  long,  it  was  a 
billiard-room." 

"A  how  much  ?  " 

"A  billiard-room  for  the  Sahibs  who  built  the 
Railway.  I  was  khansamah  then  in  the  big 
house  where  all  the  Railway-Sahibs  lived,  and  I 
used  to  come  across  with  hmndy -shrab.  These 
three  rooms  were  all  one,  and  they  held  a  big 
table  on  which  the  Sahibs  played  every  evening. 
But  the  Sahibs  are  all  dead  now,  and  the  Railway 
runs,  you  say,  nearly  to  Kabul." 


64  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

"Do  you  remember  anything  about  the 
Sahibs  ?  " 

''It  is  long  ago,  but  I  remember  that  one 
Sahib,  a  fat  man  and  always  angry,  was  playing 
here  one  night,  and  he  said  to  me: — *  Mangal 
Khan,  brandy-/)^^/  do,'  and  1  filled  the  glass,  and 
he  bent  over  the  table  to  strike,  and  his  head  fell 
lower  and  lower  till  it  hit  the  table,  and  his 
spectacles  came  off,  and  when  we — the  Sahibs 
and  I  myself — ran  to  lift  him  he  was  dead.  I 
helped  to  carry  him  out.  Aha,  he  was  a  strong 
Sahib!  But  he  is  dead  and  1,  old  Mangal  Khan, 
am  still  living,  by  your  favor." 

That  was  more  than  enough!  I  had  my  ghost 
— a  first-hand,  authenticated  article.  I  would 
write  to  the  Society  for  Psychical  Research — I 
would  paralyze  the  Empire  with  the  news!  But 
I  would,  first  of  all,  put  eighty  miles  of  assessed 
crop-land  between  myself  and  that  dak-bunga- 
low before  nightfall.  The  Society  might  send 
their  regular  agent  to  investigate  later  on. 

I  went  into  my  own  room  and  prepared  to 
pack  after  noting  down  the  facts  of  the  case. 
As  I  smoked  I  heard  the  game  begin  again — 
with  a  miss  in  balk  this  time,  for  the  whir  was  a 
short  one. 

The  door  was  open  and  I  could  see  into  the 
room.  Click — click!  That  was  a  cannon.  I 
entered  the  room  without  fear,   for  there  was 


My  Own  True  Ghost  Story  65 

sunlight  within  and  a  fresh  breeze  without.  The 
unseen  game  was  going  on  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
And  well  it  might,  when  a  restless  little  rat  was 
running  to  and  fro  inside  the  dingy  ceiling-cloth, 
and  a  piece  of  loose  window-sash  was  making 
fifty  breaks  off  the  window-bolt  as  it  shook  in 
the  breeze! 

Impossible  to  mistake  the  sound  of  billiard 
balls !  Impossible  to  mistake  the  whir  of  a  ball 
over  the  slate!  But  I  was  to  be  excused.  Even 
when  I  shut  my  enlightened  eyes  the  sound  was 
marvelously  like  that  of  a  fast  game. 

Entered  angrily  the  faithful  partner  of  my  sor- 
rows, Kadir  Baksh. 

''This  bungalow  is  very  bad  and  low-caste! 
No  wonder  the  Presence  was  disturbed  and  is 
speckled.  Three  sets  of  doolie-bearers  came  to 
the  bungalow  late  last  night  when  I  was  sleeping 
outside,  and  said  that  it  was  their  custom  to  rest 
in  the  rooms  set  apart  for  the  English  people! 
What  honor  has  the  khansamah  ?  They  tried  to 
enter,  but  I  told  them  to  go.  No  wonder,  if 
these  Oorias  have  been  here,  that  the  Presence  is 
sorely  spotted.  It  is  shame,  and  the  work  of  a 
dirty  man!" 

Kadir  Baksh  did  not  say  that  he  had  taken 
from  each  gang  two  annas  for  rent  in  advance, 
and  then,  beyond  my  earshot,  had  beaten  them 
with  the  big  green  umbrella  whose  use  I  could 


^  My  Own  True  Ghost  Story 

never  before  divine.  But  Kadir  Baksh  has  no 
notions  of  morality. 

There  was  an  interview  with  the  hhansamah, 
but  as  he  promptly  lost  his  head,  wrath  gave 
place  to  pity,  and  pity  led  to  a  long  conversa- 
tion, in  the  course  of  which  he  put  the  fat  En- 
gineer-Sahib's tragic  death  in  three  separate  sta- 
tions— two  of  them  fifty  miles  away.  The  third 
shift  was  to  Calcutta,  and  there  the  Sahib  died 
while  driving  a  dog-cart. 

If  I  had  encouraged  him  the  khansamah 
would  have  wandered  all  through  Bengal  with 
his  corpse. 

I  did  not  go  away  as  soon  as  I  intended.  I 
stayed  for  the  night,  while  the  wind  and  the  rat 
and  the  sash  and  the  window-bolt  played  a  ding- 
dong  "hundred  and  fifty  up."  Then  the  wind 
ran  out  and  the  billiards  stopped,  and  I  felt  that  I 
had  ruined  my  one  genuine,  hall-marked  ghost 
story. 

Had  I  only  stopped  at  the  proper  time,  I  could 
have  made  anything  out  of  it. 

That  was  the  bitterest  thought  of  all! 


THE  STRANGE   RIDE  OF  MORROWBIE 
JUKES 


THE  STRANGE  RIDE  OF  MOR- 
ROWBIE   JUKES 

Alive  or  dead — there  is  no  other  way, — Native  Proverb, 

THERE  is,  as  the  conjurers  say,  no  deception 
about  this  tale.  Jukes  by  accident  stum- 
bled upon  a  village  that  is  well  known  to  exist, 
though  he  is  the  only  Englishman  who  has  been 
there.  A  somewhat  similar  institution  used  to 
flourish  on  the  outskirts  of  Calcutta,  and  there  is 
a  story  that  if  you  go  into  the  heart  of  Bikanir, 
which  is  in  the  heart  of  the  Great  Indian  Desert, 
you  shall  come  across  not  a  village  but  a  town 
where  the  Dead  who  did  not  die  but  may  not 
live  have  established  their  headquarters.  And, 
since  it  is  perfectly  true  that  in  the  same  Desert 
is  a  wonderful  city  where  all  the  rich  money- 
lenders retreat  after  they  have  made  their  for- 
tunes (fortunes  so  vast  that  the  owners  cannot 
trust  even  the  strong  hand  of  the  Government  to 
protect  them,  but  take  refuge  in  the  waterless 
sands),  and  drive  sumptuous  C-spring  barouches, 
and  buy  beautiful  girls  and  decorate  their  palaces 
with  gold  and  ivory  and  Minton  tiles  and  mother- 
o'-pearl,  I  do  not  see  why  Jukes's  tale  should  not 

69 


70  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

be  true.  He  is  a  Civil  Engineer,  with  a  head  for 
plans  and  distances  and  things  of  that  kind,  and 
he  certainly  would  not  take  the  trouble  to  invent 
imaginary  traps.  He  could  earn  more  by  doing 
his  legitimate  work.  He  never  varies  the  tale  in 
the  telling,  and  grows  very  hot  and  indignant 
vv'hen  he  thinks  of  the  disrespectful  treatment  he 
received.  He  wrote  this  quite  straightforwardly 
at  first,  but  he  has  since  touched  it  up  in  places 
and  introduced  Moral  Reflections,  thus : 

In  the  beginning  it  all  arose  from  a  slight  at- 
tack of  fever.  My  work  necessitated  my  being 
in  camp  for  some  months  between  Pakpattan 
and  Mubarakpur — a  desolate  sandy  stretch  of 
country  as  every  one  who  has  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  go  there  may  know.  My  coolies  were 
neither  more  nor  less  exasperating  than  other 
gangs,  and  my  work  demanded  sufficient  atten- 
tion to  keep  me  from  moping,  had  I  been  in- 
clined to  so  unmanly  a  weakness. 

On  the  23d  December,  1884,  I  felt  a  little  fever- 
ish. There  was  a  full  moon  at  the  time,  and,  in 
consequence,  every  dog  near  my  tent  was  baying 
it.  The  brutes  assembled  in  twos  and  threes  and 
drove  me  frantic.  A  few  days  previously  I  had 
shot  one  loud-mouthed  singer  and  suspended  his 
carcass  in  terrorem  about  fifty  yards  from  my 
tent-door.     But  his  friends  fell  upon,  fought  for, 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  7 1 

and  ultimately  devoured  the  body:  and,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  sang  their  hymns  of  thanksgiving 
afterward  with  renewed  energy. 

The  light-headedness  which  accompanies  fever 
acts  differently  on  different  men.  My  irritation 
gave  way,  after  a  short  time,  to  a  fixed  deter- 
mination to  slaughter  one  huge  black  and  white 
beast  who  had  been  foremost  in  song  and  first 
in  flight  throughout  the  evening.  Thanks  to  a 
shaking  hand  and  a  giddy  head  I  had  already 
missed  him  twice  with  both  barrels  of  my  shot- 
gun, when  it  struck  me  that  my  best  plan  would 
be  to  ride  him  down  in  the  open  and  finish  him 
off  with  a  hog-spear.  This,  of  course,  was 
merely  the  semi-delirious  notion  of  a  fever  pa- 
tient; but  I  remember  that  it  struck  me  at  the 
time  as  being  eminently  practical  and  feasible. 

I  therefore  ordered  my  groom  to  saddle  Pornic 
and  bring  him  round  quietly  to  the  rear  of  my 
tent.  When  the  pony  was  ready,  I  stood  at  his 
head  prepared  to  mount  and  dash  out  as  soon  as 
the  dog  should  again  lift  up  his  voice.  Pornic, 
by  the  way,  had  not  been  out  of  his  pickets  for 
a  couple  of  days;  the  night  air  was  crisp  and 
chilly;  and  I  was  armed  with  a  specially  long 
and  sharp  pair  of  persuaders  with  which  I  had 
been  rousing  a  sluggish  cob  that  afternoon.  You 
will  easily  believe,  then,  that  when  he  was  let  go 
he  went  quickly.     In  one  moment,  for  the  brute 


72  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

bolted  as  straight  as  a  die,  the  tent  was  left  far 
behind,  and  we  were  flying  over  the  smooth 
sandy  soil  at  racing  speed.  In  another  we  had 
passed  the  wretched  dog,  and  I  had  almost  for- 
gotten why  it  was  that  1  had  taken  horse  and 
hog-spear. 

The  delirium  of  fever  and  the  excitement  of 
rapid  motion  through  the  air  must  have  taken 
away  the  remnant  of  my  senses.  I  have  a  faint 
recollection  of  standing  upright  in  my  stirrups, 
and  of  brandishing  my  hog-spear  at  the  great 
white  Moon  that  looked  down  so  calmly  on  my 
mad  gallop;  and  of  shouting  challenges  to  the 
camel-thorn  bushes  as  they  whizzed  past.  Once 
or  twice,  I  believe,  I  swayed  forward  on  Pornic's 
neck,  and  literally  hung  on  by  my  spurs — as  the 
marks  next  morning  showed. 

The  wretched  beast  went  forward  like  a  thing 
possessed,  over  what  seemed  to  be  a  limitless 
expanse  of  moonlit  sand.  Next,  I  remember, 
the  ground  rose  suddenly  in  front  of  us,  and  as 
we  topped  the  ascent  I  saw  the  waters  of  the 
Sutlej  shining  like  a  silver  bar  below.  Then 
Pornic  blundered  heavily  on  his  nose,  and  we 
rolled  together  down  some  unseen  slope. 

I  must  have  lost  consciousness,  for  when  I  re- 
covered I  was  lying  on  my  stomach  in  a  heap  of 
soft  white  sand,  and  the  dawn  was  beginning  to 
break  dimly  over  the  edge  of  the  slope  down 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowhie  Jukes  73 

which  I  had  fallen.  As  the  light  grew  stronger  I 
saw  that  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  a  horseshoe- 
shaped  crater  of  sand,  opening  on  one  side  di- 
rectly on  to  the  shoals  of  the  Sutlej.  My  fever 
had  altogether  left  me,  and,  with  the  exception 
of  a  slight  dizziness  in  the  head,  I  felt  no  bad  ef- 
fects from  the  fall  over  night. 

Pornic,  who  was  standing  a  few  yards  away, 
was  naturally  a  good  deal  exhausted,  but  had  not 
hurt  himself  in  the  least.  His  saddle,  a  favorite 
polo  one,  was  much  knocked  about,  and  had  been 
twisted  under  his  belly.  It  took  me  some  time 
to  put  him  to  rights,  and  in  the  meantime  I  had 
ample  opportunities  of  observing  the  spot  into 
which  I  had  so  foolishly  dropped. 

At  the  risk  of  being  considered  tedious,  I  must 
describe  it  at  length;  inasmuch  as  an  accurate 
mental  picture  of  its  peculiarities  will  be  of  ma- 
terial assistance  in  enabling  the  reader  to  under- 
stand what  follows. 

Imagine  then,  as  I  have  said  before,  a  horse- 
shoe-shaped crater  of  sand  with  steeply  graded 
sand  walls  about  thirty -five  feet  high.  (The 
slope,  I  fancy,  must  have  been  about  65°.)  This 
crater  enclosed  a  level  piece  of  ground  about  fifty 
yards  long  by  thirty  at  its  broadest  part,  with  a 
rude  well  in  the  centre.  Round  the  bottom  of 
the  crater,  about  three  feet  from  the  level  of  the 
ground  proper,  ran  a  series  of  eighty-three  semi- 


74  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

circular,  ovoid,  square,  and  multilateral  holes,  all 
about  three  feet  at  the  mouth.  Each  hole  on  in- 
spection showed  that  it  was  carefully  shored  in- 
ternally with  drift-wood  and  bamboos,  and  over 
the  mouth  a  wooden  drip-board  projected,  like 
the  peak  of  a  jockey's  cap,  for  two  feet.  No 
sign  of  life  was  visible  in  these  tunnels,  but  a 
most  sickening  stench  pervaded  the  entire  am- 
phitheatre— a  stench  fouler  than  any  which  my 
wanderings  in  Indian  villages  have  introduced 
me  to. 

Having  remounted  Pornic,  who  was  as  anxious 
as  I  to  get  back  to  camp,  I  rode  round  the  base  of 
the  horseshoe  to  find  some  place  whence  an  exit 
would  be  practicable.  The  inhabitants,  whoever 
they  might  be,  had  not  thought  fit  to  put  in  an 
appearance,  so  I  was  left  to  my  own  devices. 
My  first  attempt  to  "rush"  Pornic  up  the  steep 
sand-banks  showed  me  that  1  had  fallen  into  a 
trap  exactly  on  the  same  model  as  that  which  the 
ant-lion  sets  for  its  prey.  At  each  step  the  shift- 
ing sand  poured  down  from  above  in  tons,  and 
rattled  on  the  drip-boards  of  the  holes  like  small 
shot.  A  couple  of  ineffectual  charges  sent  us 
both  rolling  down  to  the  bottom,  half  choked 
with  the  torrents  of  sand;  and  1  was  constrained 
to  turn  my  attention  to  the  river-bank. 

Here  everything  seemed  easy  enough.  The 
sand  hills  ran  down  to  the  river  edge,  it  is  true, 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  75 

but  there  were  plenty  of  shoals  and  shallows 
across  which  I  could  gallop  Pornic,  and  find  my 
way  back  to  terra  firma  by  turning  sharply  to 
the  right  or  the  left.  As  1  led  Pornic  over  the 
sands  I  v/as  startled  by  the  faint  pop  of  a  rifle 
across  the  river;  and  at  the  same  momenta  bullet 
dropped  with  a  sharp  "ivhit"  dosQ  to  Pornic's 
head. 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  nature  of  the 
missile— a  regulation  Martini-Henry  "picket." 
About  five  hundred  yards  away  a  country-boat 
was  anchored  in  midstream ;  and  a  jet  of  smoke 
drifting  away  from  its  bows  in  the  still  morning 
air  showed  me  whence  the  delicate  attention  had 
come.  Was  ever  a  respectable  gentleman  in 
such  an  impasse?  The  treacherous  sand  slope 
allowed  no  escape  from  a  spot  which  I  had 
visited  most  involuntarily,  and  a  promenade  on 
the  river  frontage  was  the  signal  for  a  bombard- 
ment from  some  insane  native  in  a  boat.  I'm 
afraid  that  I  lost  my  temper  very  much  indeed. 

Another  bullet  reminded  me  that  I  had  better 
save  my  breath  to  cool  my  porridge;  and  I  re- 
treated hastily  up  the  sands  and  back  to  the 
horseshoe,  where  I  saw  that  the  noise  of  the  rifle 
had  drawn  sixty-five  human  beings  from  the 
badger-holes  which  I  had  up  till  that  point  sup- 
posed to  be  untenanted.  I  found  myself  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd  of  spectators— about  forty  men, 


76  The  Strange  Ride  of  MorrowMe  Jukes 

twenty  women,  and  one  child  who  could  not 
have  been  more  than  five  years  old.  They  were 
all  scantily  clothed  in  that  salmon-colored  cloth 
which  one  associates  with  Hindu  mendicants, 
and,  at  tirst  sight,  gave  me  the  impression  of  a 
band  of  loathsome  fakirs.  The  filth  and  repul- 
siveness  of  the  assembly  were  beyond  all  des- 
cription, and  I  shuddered  to  think  what  their  life 
in  the  badger-holes  must  be. 

Even  in  these  days,  when  local  self-govern- 
ment has  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  a  native's 
respect  for  a  Sahib,  I  have  been  accustomed  to  a 
certain  amount  of  civility  from  my  inferiors,  and 
on  approaching  the  crowd  naturally  expected 
that  there  would  be  some  recognition  of  my 
presence.  As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was;  but  it 
was  by  no  means  what  I  had  looked  for. 

The  ragged  crew  actually  laughed  at  me — such 
laughter  I  hope  I  may  never  hear  again.  They 
cackled,  yelled,  whistled,  and  howled  as  I  walked 
into  their  midst;  some  of  them  literally  throwing 
themselves  down  on  the  ground  in  convulsions 
of  unholy  mirth.  In  a  moment  I  had  let  go 
Pornic's  head,  and,  irritated  beyond  expression  at 
the  morning's  adventure,  commenced  cuffing 
those  nearest  to  me  with  all  the  force  I  could. 
The  wretches  dropped  under  my  blows  like 
nine-pins,  and  the  laughter  gave  place  to  wails 
for  mercy;  while  those  yet  untouched  clasped 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morroiijbie  Jukes  77 

me  round  the  knees,  imploring  me  in  all  sorts  of 
uncouth  tongues  to  spare  them. 

In  the  tumult,  and  just  when  I  was  feeling  very 
much  ashamed  of  myself  for  having  thus  easily 
given  way  to  my  temper,  a  thin,  high  voice  mur- 
mured in  English  from  behind  my  shoulder: — 
**  Sahib!  Sahib!  Do  you  not  know  me  ?  Sahib, 
it  is  Gunga  Dass,  the  telegraph-master." 

I  spun  round  quickly  and  faced  the  speaker. 

Gunga  Dass  (I  have,  of  course,  no  hesitation  in 
mentioning  the  man's  real  name)  I  had  known 
four  years  before  as  a  Deccanee  Brahmin  loaned 
by  the  Punjab  Government  to  one  of  the  Khalsia 
States.  He  was  in  charge  of  a  branch  telegraph- 
office  there,  and  when  I  had  last  met  him  was  a 
jovial,  full-stomached,  portly  Government  serv- 
ant with  a  marvelous  capacity  for  making  bad 
puns  in  English — a  peculiarity  which  made  me 
remember  him  long  after  I  had  forgotten  his 
services  to  m.e  in  his  official  capacity.  It  is  sel- 
dom that  a  Hindu  makes  English  puns. 

Now,  however,  the  man  was  changed  beyond 
all  recognition.  Caste-mark,  stomach,  slate-col- 
ored continuations,  and  unctuous  speech  were  all 
gone.  I  looked  at  a  withered  skeleton,  turban- 
less  and  almost  naked,  with  long  matted  hair 
and  deep-set  codfish-eyes.  But  for  a  crescent- 
shaped  scar  on  the  left  cheek — the  result  of  an 
accident  for  which  I  was  responsible — I  should 


78  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

never  have  known  him.  But  it  was  indubitably 
Gunga  Dass,  and — for  this  I  was  thankful — an 
English-speaking  native  who  might  at  least  tell 
me  the  meaning  of  all  that  I  had  gone  through 
that  day. 

The  crowd  retreated  to  some  distance  as  I 
turned  toward  the  miserable  figure,  and  ordered 
him  to  show  me  some  method  of  escaping  from 
the  crater.  He  held  a  freshly  plucked  crow  in 
his  hand,  and  in  reply  to  my  question  climbed 
slowly  on  a  platform  of  sand  which  ran  in  front 
of  the  holes,  and  commenced  lighting  a  fire  there 
in  silence.  Dried  bents,  sand-poppies,  and  drift- 
wood burn  quickly;  and  I  derived  much  consola- 
tion from  the  fact  that  he  lit  them  with  an  ordi- 
nary sulphur-match.  When  they  were  in  a  bright 
glow,  and  the  crow  was  neatly  spitted  in  front 
thereof,  Gunga  Dass  began  without  a  word  of 
preamble: 

"There  are  onty  two  kinds  of  men,  Sar.  The 
alive  and  the  dead.  When  you  are  dead  you  are 
dead,  but  when  you  are  alive  you  live."  (Here 
the  crow  demanded  his  attention  for  an  instant 
as  it  twirled  before  the  fire  in  danger  of  being 
burned  to  a  cinder.)  "If  you  die  at  home  and 
do  not  die  when  you  come  to  the  ghat  to  be 
burned  you  come  here." 

The  nature  of  the  reeking  village  was  made 
plain  now,  and  all  that  I  had  known  or  read  of 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  79 

the  grotesque  and  the  horrible  paled  before  the 
fact  just  communicated  by  the  ex-Brahmin.  Six- 
teen years  ago,  when  I  first  landed  in  Bombay,  I 
had  been  told  by  a  wandering  Armenian  of  the 
existence,  somewhere  in  India,  of  a  place  to 
which  such  Hindus  as  had  the  misfortune  to  re- 
cover from  trance  or  catalepsy  were  conveyed 
and  kept,  and  I  recollect  laughing  heartily  at 
what  I  was  then  pleased  to  consider  a  traveler's 
tale.  Sitting  at  the  bottom  of  the  sand-trap,  the 
memory  of  Watson's  Hotel,  with  its  swinging 
punkahs,  white-robed  attendants,  and  the  sal- 
low-faced Armenian,  rose  up  in  my  mind  as  viv- 
idly as  a  photograph,  and  I  burst  into  a  loud  fit 
of  laughter.     The  contrast  was  too  absurd! 

Gunga  Dass,  as  he  bent  over  the  unclean  bird, 
watched  me  curiously.  Hindus  seldom  laugh, 
and  his  surroundings  were  not  such  as  to  move 
Gunga  Dass  to  any  undue  excess  of  hilarity.  He 
removed  the  crow  solemnly  from  the  wooden 
spit  and  as  solemnly  devoured  it.  Then  he  con- 
tinued his  story,  which  I  give  in  his  own  words: 

*Mn  epidemics  of  the  cholera  you  are  carried 
to  be  burned  almost  before  you  are  dead.  When 
you  come  to  the  riverside  the  cold  air,  perhaps, 
makes  you  alive,  and  then,  if  you  are  only  little 
ahve,  mud  is  put  on  your  nose  and  mouth  and 
you  die  conclusively.  If  you  are  rather  more 
alive,  more  mud  is  put;  but  if  you  are  too  lively 


8o  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

they  let  you  go  and  take  you  away.  I  was  too 
lively,  and  made  protestation  with  anger  against 
the  indignities  that  they  endeavored  to  press 
upon  me.  In  those  days  1  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man.  Now  1  am  dead  man  and  eat" — 
here  he  eyed  the  well-gnawed  breast  bone  with 
the  first  sign  of  emotion  that  I  had  seen  in  him 
since  we  met — "  crows,  and  other  things.  They 
took  me  from  my  sheets  when  they  saw  that  I 
was  too  hvely  and  gave  me  medicines  for  one 
week,  and  I  survived  successfully.  Then  they 
sent  me  by  rail  from  my  place  to  Okara  Station, 
with  a  man  to  take  care  of  me;  and  at  Okara 
Station  we  met  two  other  men,  and  they  con- 
ducted we  three  on  camels,  in  the  night,  from 
Okara  Station  to  this  place,  and  they  propelled 
me  from  the  top  to  the  bottom,  and  the  other 
two  succeeded,  and  I  have  been  here  ever  since 
two  and  a  half  years.  Once  I  was  Brahmin  and 
proud  man,  and  now  I  eat  crows." 

''  There  is  no  way  of  getting  out  ?" 

**  None  of  what  kind  at  all.  When  I  first  came 
I  made  experiments  frequently  and  all  the  others 
also,  but  we  have  always  succumbed  to  the  sand 
which  is  precipitated  upon  our  heads." 

"But  surely,"  I  broke  in  at  this  point,  ''the 
river-front  is  open,  and  it  is  worth  while  dodg- 
ing the  bullets;  while  at  night  "— 

I  had  already  matured  a  rough  plan  of  escape 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  8i 

which  a  natural  instinct  of  selfishness  forbade 
me  sharing  with  Gunga  Dass.  He,  however,  di- 
vined my  unspoken  thought  almost  as  soon  as  it 
was  formed;  and,  to  my  intense  astonishment, 
gave  vent  to  a  long  low  chuckle  of  derision — the 
laughter,  be  it  understood,  of  a  superior  or  at 
least  of  an  equal. 

"  You  will  not " — he  had  dropped  the  Sir  com- 
pletely after  his  opening  sentence — "make  any 
escape  that  way.  But  you  can  try.  I  have  tried. 
Once  only." 

The  sensation  of  nameless  terror  and  abject 
fear  which  I  had  in  vain  attempted  to  strive 
against  overmastered  me  completely.  My  long 
fast — it  was  now  close  upon  ten  o'clock,  and  I 
had  eaten  nothing  since  tiffin  on  the  previous 
day— combined  with  the  violent  and  unnatural 
agitation  of  the  ride  had  exhausted  me,  and  I 
verily  believe  that,  for  a  few  minutes,  I  acted  as 
one  mad.  I  hurled  myself  against  the  pitiless 
sand-slope.  I  ran  round  the  base  of  the  crater, 
blaspheming  and  praying  by  turns.  I  crawled 
out  among  the  sedges  of  the  river-front,  only  to 
be  driven  back  each  time  in  an  agony  of  nervous 
dread  by  the  rifle-bullets  which  cut  up  the  sand 
round  me — for  I  dared  not  face  the  death  of  a 
mad  dog  among  that  hideous  crowd — and  finally 
fell,  spent  and  raving,  at  the  curb  of  the  well. 
No  one  had  taken  the  slightest  notice  of  an  ex- 


82  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes 

hibition  which  makes  me  blush  hotly  even  when 
I  think  of  it  now. 

Two  or  three  men  trod  on  my  panting  body  as 
they  drew  water,  but  they  were  evidently  used 
to  this  sort  of  thing,  and  had  no  time  to  waste 
upon  me.  The  situation  was  humiliating.  Gunga 
Dass,  indeed,  when  he  had  banked  the  embers  of 
his  fire  with  sand,  was  at  some  pains  to  throw 
half  a  cupful  of  fetid  water  over  my  head,  an 
attention  for  which  I  could  have  fallen  on  my 
knees  and  thanked  him,  but  he  was  laughing  all 
the  while  in  the  same  mirthless,  wheezy  key  that 
greeted  me  on  my  first  attempt  to  force  the 
shoals.  And  so,  in  a  semi-comatose  condition,  I 
lay  till  noon.  Then,  being  only  a  man  after  all,  I 
felt  hungry,  and  intimated  as  much  to  Gunga 
Dass,  whom  I  had  begun  to  regard  as  my  natural 
protector.  Following  the  impulse  of  the  outer 
world  when  dealing  with  natives,  I  put  my  hand 
into  my  pocket  and  drew  out  four  annas.  The 
absurdity  of  the  gift  struck  me  at  once,  and  I  was 
about  to  replace  the  money. 

Gunga  Dass,  however,  was  of  a  different 
opinion.  "Give  me  the  money,"  said  he;  ''all 
you  have,  or  I  will  get  help,  and  we  will  kill 
you!"  All  this  as  if  it  were  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world! 

A  Briton's  first  impulse,  I  believe,  is  to  guard 
the  contents  of  his  pockets;  but  a  moment's  re- 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morron'bte  Jtikes  83 

flection  convinced  me  of  the  futility  of  differing 
with  the  one  man  who  had  it  in  his  power  to 
make  me  comfortable;  and  with  whose  help  it 
was  possible  that  I  might  eventually  escape  from 
the  crater.  I  gave  him  all  the  money  in  my 
possession,  Rs.  9-8-5 — nine  rupees  eight  annas 
and  five  pie — for  I  always  keep  small  change  as 
bakshish  when  I  am  in  camp.  Gunga  Dass 
clutched  the  coins,  and  hid  them  at  once  in  his 
ragged  loin-cloth,  his  expression  changing  to 
something  diabolical  as  he  looked  round  to  assure 
himself  that  no  one  had  observed  us. 

''Now  I  will  give  you  something  to  eat," 
said  he. 

What  pleasure  the  possession  of  my  money 
could  have  afforded  him  1  am  unable  to  say;  but 
inasmuch  as  it  did  give  him  evident  delight  I 
was  not  sorry  that  I  had  parted  with  it  so  readily, 
for  I  had  no  doubt  that  he  would  have  had  me 
killed  if  1  had  refused.  One  does  not  protest 
against  the  vagaries  of  a  den  of  wild  beasts;  and 
my  companions  were  lower  than  any  beasts. 
While  I  devoured  what  Gunga  Dass  had  pro- 
vided, a  coarse  chapatti  and  a  cupful  of  the  foul 
well-water,  the  people  showed  not  the  faintest 
sign  of  curiosity — that  curiosity  which  is  so 
rampant,  as  a  rule,  in  an  Indian  village. 

I  could  even  fancy  that  they  despised  me.  At 
all  events  they  treated  me  with  the  most  chilling 


^4  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

indifference,  and  Gunga  Dass  was  nearly  as  bad. 
I  plied  him  with  questions  about  the  terrible 
village,  and  received  extremely  unsatisfactory 
answers.  So  far  as  I  could  gather,  it  had  been  in 
existence  from  time  immemorial — whence  1  con- 
cluded that  it  was  at  least  a  century  old — and 
during  that  time  no  one  had  ever  been  known  to 
escape  from  it.  [1  had  to  control  myself  here 
with  both  hands,  lest  the  blind  terror  should  lay 
hold  of  me  a  second  time  and  drive  me  raving 
round  the  crater.]  Gunga  Dass  took  a  malicious 
pleasure  in  emphasizing  this  point  and  in  watch- 
ing me  wince.  Nothing  that  1  could  do  would 
induce  him  to  tell  me  who  the  mysterious 
*'  They"  were. 

"It  is  so  ordered,"  he  would  reply,  "and  I 
do  not  yet  know  any  one  who  has  disobeyed  the 
orders." 

"  Only  wait  till  my  servants  fmd  that  I  am 
missing,"  I  retorted,  "and  I  promise  you  that 
this  place  shall  be  cleared  off  the  face  of  the 
earth,  and  I'll  give  you  a  lesson  in  civility,  too, 
my  friend." 

"Your  servants  would  be  torn  in  pieces 
before  they  came  near  this  place;  and,  besides, 
you  are  dead,  my  dear  friend.  It  is  not  your 
fault,  of  course,  but  none  the  less  you  are  dead 
and  buried." 

At  irregular  intervals  supplies  of  food,  1  was 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  85 

told,  were  dropped  down  from  the  land  side  into 
the  amphitheatre,  and  the  inhabitants  fought  for 
them  like  wild  beasts.  When  a  man  felt  his 
death  coming  on  he  retreated  to  his  lair  and  died 
there.  The  body  was  sometimes  dragged  out  of 
the  hole  and  thrown  on  to  the  sand,  or  allowed 
to  rot  where  it  lay. 

The  phrase  ''thrown  on  to  the  sand"  caught 
my  attention,  and  I  asked  Gunga  Dass  whether 
this  sort  of  thing  was  not  likely  to  breed  a  pesti- 
lence. 

''That,"  said  he,  with  another  of  his  wheezy 
chuckles,  "you  may  see  for  yourself  subse- 
quently. You  will  have  much  time  to  make 
observations." 

Whereat,  to  his  great  delight,  I  winced  once 
more  and  hastily  continued  the  conversation: — 
"And  how  do  you  live  here  from  day  to  day? 
What  do  you  do.?"  The  question  elicited  ex- 
actly the  same  answer  as  before — coupled  with 
the  information  that  "this  place  is  like  your 
European  heaven ;  there  is  neither  marrying  nor 
giving  in  marriage." 

Gunga  Dass  has  been  educated  at  a  Mission 
School,  and,  as  he  himself  admitted,  had  he  only 
changed  his  religion  "like  a  wise  man,"  might 
have  avoided  the  living  grave  which  was  now  his 
portion.  But  as  long  as  I  was  with  him  I  fancy 
he  was  happy. 


86  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

Here  was  a  Sahib,  a  representative  of  the 
dominant  race,  helpless  as  a  child  and  completely 
at  the  mercy  of  his  native  neighbors.  In  a  de- 
liberate lazy  way  he  set  himself  to  torture  me  as 
a  schoolboy  would  devote  a  rapturous  half-hour 
to  watching  the  agonies  of  an  impaled  beetle,  or 
as  a  ferret  in  a  blind  burrow  might  glue  himself 
comfortably  to  the  neck  of  a  rabbit.  The  burden 
of  his  conversation  was  that  there  was  no  escape 
"of  no  kind  whatever,"  and  that  I  should  stay 
here  till  I  died  and  was  "thrown  on  to  the  sand." 
If  it  were  possible  to  forejudge  the  conversation 
of  the  Damned  on  the  advent  of  a  new  soul  in 
their  abode,  I  should  say  that  they  would  speak 
as  Gunga  Dass  did  to  me  throughout  that  long 
afternoon.  I  was  powerless  to  protest  or  an- 
swer; all  my  energies  being  devoted  to  a  struggle 
against  the  inexplicable  terror  that  threatened  to 
overwhelm  me  again  and  again.  I  can  compare 
the  feeling  to  nothing  except  the  struggles  of  a 
man  against  the  overpowering  nausea  of  the 
Channel  passage — only  my  agony  was  of  the 
spirit  and  infinitely  more  terrible. 

As  the  day  wore  on,  the  inhabitants  began  to 
appear  in  full  strength  to  catch  the  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun,  which  were  now  sloping  in  at  the 
mouth  of  the  crater.  They  assembled  in  little 
knots,  and  talked  among  themselves  without 
even  throwing  a  glance  in  my  direction.     About 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  87 

four  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  Gunga  Dass 
rose  and  dived  into  his  lair  for  a  moment, 
emerging  with  a  live  crow  in  his  hands.  The 
wretched  bird  was  in  a  most  draggled  and 
deplorable  condition,  but  seemed  to  be  in  no  way 
afraid  of  its  master.  Advancing  cautiously  to  the 
river  front,  Gunga  Dass  stepped  from  tussock  to 
tussock  until  he  had  reached  a  smooth  patch  of 
sand  directly  in  the  line  of  the  boat's  fire.  The 
occupants  of  the  boat  took  no  notice.  Here  he 
stopped,  and,  with  a  couple  of  dexterous  turns 
of  the  wrist,  pegged  the  bird  on  its  back  with 
outstretched  wings.  As  was  only  natural,  the 
crow  began  to  shriek  at  once  and  beat  the  air 
with  its  claws.  In  a  few  seconds  the  clamor  had 
attracted  the  attention  of  a  bevy  of  wild  crows 
on  a  shoal  a  few  hundred  yards  away,  where 
they  were  discussing  something  that  looked  like 
a  corpse.  Half  a  dozen  crows  flew  over  at  once 
to  see  what  was  going  on,  and  also,  as  it  proved, 
to  attack  the  pinioned  bird.  Gunga  Dass,  who 
had  lain  down  on  a  tussock,  motioned  to  me 
to  be  quiet,  though  I  fancy  this  was  a  need- 
less precaution.  In  a  moment,  and  before  I 
could  see  how  it  happened,  a  wild  crow,  who 
had  grappled  with  the  shrieking  and  helpless 
bird,  was  entangled  in  the  latter's  claws,  swiftly 
disengaged  by  Gunga  Dass,  and  pegged  down 
beside  its  companion  in  adversity.     Curiosity,  it 


88  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

seemed,  overpowered  the  rest  of  the  flock,  and 
almost  before  Gunga  Dass  and  I  had  time  to 
withdraw  to  the  tussock,  two  more  captives 
were  strugghng  in  the  upturned  claws  of  the 
decoys.  So  the  chase — if  I  can  give  it  so  digni- 
fied a  name — continued  until  Gunga  Dass  had 
captured  seven  crows.  Five  of  them  he  throttled 
at  once,  reserving  two  for  further  operations  an- 
other day.  I  was  a  good  deal  impressed  by  this, 
to  me,  novel  method  of  securing  food,  and  com- 
plimented Gunga  Dass  on  his  skill. 

*'It  is  nothing  to  do,"  said  he.  **  To-morrow 
you  must  do  it  for  me.  You  are  stronger  than  I 
am." 

This  calm  assumption  of  superiority  upset  me 
not  a  little,  and  I  answered  peremptorily; — "In- 
deed, you  old  ruffian!  What  do  you  think  I 
have  given  you  money  for  ?" 

"  Very  wel!/'  was  the  unmoved  reply.  "  Per- 
haps not  to-morrow,  nor  the  day  after,  nor 
subsequently;  but  in  the  end,  and  for  many 
years,  you  will  catch  crows  and  eat  crows,  and 
you  will  thank  your  European  God  that  you  have 
crows  to  catch  and  eat." 

I  could  have  cheerfully  strangled  him  for  this; 
but  judged  it  best  under  the  circumstances  to 
smother  my  resentment.  An  hour  later  I  was 
eating  one  of  the  crows;  and,  as  Gunga  Dass 
had  said,  thanking  my  God  that  I  had  a  crow  to 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  fiihes  89 

eat.  Never  as  long  as  I  live  shall  I  forget  that 
evening  meal.  The  whole  population  were 
squatting  on  the  hard  sand  platform  opposite 
their  dens,  huddled  over  tiny  fires  of  refuse  and 
dried  rushes.  Death,  having  once  laid  his  hand 
upon  these  men  and  forborne  to  strike,  seemed 
to  stand  aloof  from  them  now;  for  most  of  our 
company  were  old  men,  bent  and  worn  and 
twisted  with  years,  and  women  aged  to  all  ap- 
pearance as  the  Fates  themselves.  They  sat  to- 
gether in  knots  and  talked — God  only  knows 
what  they  found  to  discuss — in  low  equable 
tones,  curiously  in  contrast  to  the  strident  babble 
with  which  natives  are  accustomed  to  make  day 
hideous.  Now  and  then  an  access  of  that  sudden 
fury  which  had  possessed  me  in  the  morning 
would  lay  hold  on  a  man  or  woman;  and  with 
yells  and  imprecations  the  sufferer  would  attack 
the  steep  slope  until,  baffled  and  bleeding,  he  fell 
back  on  the  platform  incapable  of  moving  a 
limb.  The  others  would  never  even  raise  their 
eyes  when  this  happened,  as  men  too  well  aware 
of  the  futility  of  their  fellows'  attempts  and 
wearied  with  their  useless  repetition.  I  saw  four 
such  outbursts  in  the  course  of  that  evening. 

Gunga  Dass  took  an  eminently  business-like 
view  of  my  situation,  and  while  we  were  dining 
—I  can  afford  to  laugh  at  the  recollection  now, 
but  it   was   painful   enough   at  the  time — pro- 


90  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes 

pounded  the  terms  on  which  he  would  consent 
to  *'do"  for  me.  My  nine  rupees  eight  annas, 
he  argued,  at  the  rate  of  three  annas  a  day,  would 
provide  me  with  food  for  fifty-one  days,  or  about 
seven  weeks;  that  is  to  say,  he  would  be  willing 
to  cater  for  me  for  that  length  of  time.  At  the 
end  of  it  I  was  to  look  after  myself.  For  a  fur- 
ther consideration — videlicet  my  boots — he  would 
be  willing  to  allow  me  to  occupy  the  den  next 
to  his  own,  and  would  supply  me  with  as  much 
dried  grass  for  bedding  as  he  could  spare. 

"Very  well,  Gunga  Dass,"  1  replied;  "to  the 
first  terms  I  cheerfully  agree,  but,  as  there  is 
nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  my  killing  you  as  you 
sit  here  and  taking  everything  that  you  have"  (I 
thought  of  the  two  invaluable  crows  at  the  time), 
"I  flatly  refuse  to  give  you  my  boots  and  shall 
take  whichever  den  I  please." 

The  stroke  was  a  bold  one,  and  I  was  glad 
when  I  saw  that  it  had  succeeded.  Gunga  Dass 
changed  his  tone  immediately,  and  disavowed 
all  intention  of  asking  for  my  boots.  At  the 
time  it  did  not  strike  me  as  at  all  strange  that  I,  a 
Civil  Engineer,  a  man  of  thirteen  years'  standing 
in  the  Service,  and,  I  trust,  an  average  English- 
man, should  thus  calmly  threaten  murder  and 
violence  against  the  man  who  had,  for  a  con- 
sideration it  is  true,  taken  me  under  his  wing.  I 
had  left  the  world,  it  seemed,  for  centuries.     I 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes  91 

was  as  certain  then  as  I  am  now  of  my  own  ex- 
istence, that  in  the  accursed  settlement  there  was 
no  law  save  that  of  the  strongest;  that  the  living 
dead  men  had  thrown  behind  them  every  canon 
of  the  world  which  had  cast  them  out;  and  that 
I  had  to  depend  for  my  own  life  on  my  strength 
and  vigilance  alone.  The  crew  of  the  ill-fated 
Mignonette  are  the  only  men  who  would  under- 
stand my  frame  of  mind.  **At  present,"  I 
argued  to  myself,  '*  I  am  strong  and  a  match  for 
six  of  these  wretches.  It  is  imperatively  neces- 
sary that  1  should,  for  my  own  sake,  keep  both 
health  and  strength  until  the  hour  of  my  release 
comes — if  it  ever  does." 

Fortified  with  these  resolutions,  I  ate  and  drank 
as  much  as  I  could,  and  made  Gunga  Dass  under- 
stand that  I  intended  to  be  his  master,  and  that 
the  least  sign  of  insubordination  on  his  part 
would  be  visited  with  the  only  punishment  I  had 
it  in  my  power  to  inflict — sudden  and  violent 
death.  Shortly  after  this  I  went  to  bed.  That  is 
to  say,  Gunga  Dass  gave  me  a  double  armful  of 
dried  bents  which  I  thrust  down  the  mouth  of 
the  lair  to  the  right  of  his,  and  followed  myself, 
feet  foremost;  the  hole  running  about  nine  feet 
into  the  sand  with  a  slight  downward  inclination, 
and  being  neatly  shored  with  timbers.  From  my 
den,  which  faced  the  river-front,  I  was  able  to 
watch  the  waters  of  the  Sutlej  flowing  past  under 


92  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

the  light  of  a  young  moon  and  compose  myself 
to  sleep  as  best  I  might. 

The  horrors  of  that  night  I  shall  never  forget 
My  den  was  nearly  as  narrow  as  a  coffin,  and  the 
sides  had  been  worn  smooth  and  greasy  by  the 
contact  of  innumerable  naked  bodies,  added  to 
which  it  smelled  abominably.  Sleep  was  alto- 
gether out  of  question  to  one  in  my  excited  frame 
of  mind.  As  the  night  wore  on,  it  seemed  that 
the  entire  amphitheatre  was  filled  with  legions  of 
unclean  devils  that,  trooping  up  from  the  shoals 
below,  mocked  the  unfortunates  in  their  lairs. 

Personally  I  am  not  of  an  imaginative  tempera- 
ment,— very  few  Engineers  are, — but  on  that 
occasion  I  was  as  completely  prostrated  with 
nervous  terror  as  any  woman.  After  half  an 
hour  or  so,  however,  I  was  able  once  more  to 
calmly  review  my  chances  of  escape.  Any  exit 
by  the  steep  sand  walls  was,  of  course,  impracti- 
cable. 1  had  been  thoroughly  convinced  of  this 
some  time  before.  It  was  possible,  just  possible, 
that  I  might,  in  the  uncertain  moonlight,  safely 
run  the  gauntlet  of  the  rifle  shots.  The  place 
was  so  full  of  terror  for  me  that  I  was  prepared 
to  undergo  any  risk  in  leaving  it.  Imagine  my 
delight,  then,  when  after  creeping  stealthily  to 
the  river-front  I  found  that  the  infernal  boat  was 
not  there.  My  freedom  lay  before  me  in  the 
next  few  steps! 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  93 

By  walking  out  to  the  first  shallow  pool  that 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  projecting  left  horn  of  the 
horseshoe,  I  could  wade  across,  turn  the  flank  of 
the  crater,  and  make  my  way  inland.  Without 
a  moment's  hesitation  I  marched  briskly  past  the 
tussocks  where  Gunga  Dass  had  snared  the 
crows,  and  out  in  the  direction  of  the  smooth 
white  sand  beyond.  My  first  step  from  the  tufts 
of  dried  grass  showed  me  how  utterly  futile  was 
any  hope  of  escape ;  for,  as  I  put  my  foot  down, 
1  felt  an  indescribable  drawing,  sucking  motion 
of  the  sand  below.  Another  moment  and  my 
leg  was  swallowed  up  nearly  to  the  knee.  In 
the  moonlight  the  whole  surface  of  the  sand 
seemed  to  be  shaken  with  devilish  delight  at 
my  disappointment.  1  struggled  clear,  sweating 
with  terror  and  exertion,  back  to  the  tussocks  be- 
hind me  and  fell  on  my  face. 

My  only  means  of  escape  from  the  semicircle 
was  protected  with  a  quicksand! 

How  long  1  lay  I  have  not  the  faintest  idea; 
but  1  was  roused  at  last  by  the  malevolent 
chuckle  of  Gunga  Dass  at  my  ear.  "I  would 
advise  you,  Protector  of  the  Poor"  (the  ruffian 
was  speaking  English)  *'to  return  to  your  house. 
It  is  unhealthy  to  lie  down  here.  Moreover, 
when  the  boat  returns,  you  will  most  certainly 
be  rifled  at."  He  stood  over  me  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  dawn,  chuckling  and  laughing  to  himself. 


94  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

Suppressing  my  first  impulse  to  catch  the  man  by 
the  neck  and  throw  him  on  to  the  quicksand,  I 
rose  sullenly  and  followed  him  to  the  platform 
below  the  burrows. 

Suddenly,  and  futilely  as  I  thought  while  I 
spoke,  I  asked: — ''  Gunga  Dass,  what  is  the  good 
of  the  boat  if  I  can't  get  out  anyhow  ?  "  I  recol- 
lect that  even  in  my  deepest  trouble  I  had  been 
speculating  vaguely  on  the  waste  of  ammunition 
in  guarding  an  already  well  protected  foreshore. 

Gunga  Dass  laughed  again  and  made  answer: 
— "They  have  the  boat  only  in  daytime.  It  is 
for  the  reason  that  there  is  a  way.  I  hope  we 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  your  company  for 
much  longer  time.  It  is  a  pleasant  spot  when 
you  have  been  here  some  years  and  eaten  roast 
crow  long  enough." 

I  staggered,  numbed  and  helpless,  toward  the 
fetid  burrow  allotted  to  me,  and  fell  asleep.  An 
hour  or  so  later  I  was  awakened  by  a  piercing 
scream — the  shrill,  high-pitched  scream  of  a 
horse  in  pain.  Those  who  have  once  heard  that 
will  never  forget  the  sound.  1  found  some  lit- 
tle difficulty  in  scrambling  out  of  the  burrow. 
When  1  was  in  the  open,  1  saw  Pornic,  my  poor 
old  Pornic,  lying  dead  on  the  sandy  soil.  How 
they  had  killed  him  I  cannot  guess.  Gunga  Dass 
explained  that  horse  was  better  than  crow,  and 
"greatest  good  of  greatest  number  is  political 


Copyright,  1899,  by  H.  M.  Caldwell  Co. 

"  '  You  will  live  liere  till  you  die  like  the  other  Feriughi.'  " 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  95 

maxim.  We  are  now  Republic,  Mister  Jukes, 
and  you  are  entitled  to  a  fair  share  of  the  beast. 
If  you  like,  we  will  pass  a  vote  of  thanks.  Shall 
I  propose?" 

Yes,  we  were  a  Republic  indeed!  A  Republic 
of  wild  beasts  penned  at  the  bottom  of  a  pit,  to 
eat  and  fight  and  sleep  till  we  died.  I  attempted 
no  protest  of  any  kind,  but  sat  down  and  stared 
at  the  hideous  sight  in  front  of  me.  In  less  time 
almost  than  it  takes  me  to  write  this,  Pornic's  body 
was  divided,  in  some  unclean  way  or  other;  the 
men  and  women  had  dragged  the  fragments  on 
to  the  platform  and  were  preparing  their  morning 
meal.  Gunga  Dass  cooked  mine.  The  almost 
irresistible  impulse  to  fly  at  the  sand  walls  until  I 
was  wearied  laid  hold  of  me  afresh,  and  I  had  to 
struggle  against  it  with  all  my  might.  Gunga 
Dass  was  offensively  jocular  till  I  told  him  that  if 
he  addressed  another  remark  of  any  kind  what- 
ever to  me  I  should  strangle  him  where  he  sat. 
This  silenced  him  till  silence  became  insupport- 
able, and  I  bade  him  say  something. 

"You  will  live  here  till  you  die  like  the  other 
Feringhi,"  he  said,  coolly,  watching  me  over  the 
fragment  of  gristle  that  he  was  gnawing. 

"What  other  Sahib,  you  swine .^  Speak  at 
once,  and  don't  stop  to  tell  me  a  lie." 

"He  is  over  there,"  answered  Gunga  Dass, 
pointing  to  a  burrow-mouth  about  four  doors  to 


96  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

the  left  of  my  own.  ''You  can  see  for  yourself. 
He  died  in  the  burrow  as  you  will  die,  and  I  will 
die,  and  as  all  these  men  and  women  and  the  one 
child  will  also  die." 

"For  pity's  sake  tell  me  all  you  know  about 
him.  Who  was  he  }  When  did  he  come,  and 
when  did  he  die  }  " 

This  appeal  was  a  weak  step  on  my  part. 
Gunga  Dass  only  leered  and  replied: — "1  will 
not — unless  you  give  me  something  first." 

Then  1  recollected  where  1  was,  and  struck  the 
man  between  the  eyes,  partially  stunning  him. 
He  stepped  down  from  the  platform  at  once, 
and,  cringing  and  fawning  and  weeping  and  at- 
tempting to  embrace  my  feet,  led  me  round  to 
the  burrow  which  he  had  indicated. 

"I  know  nothing  whatever  about  the  gentle- 
man. Your  God  be  my  witness  that  I  do  not. 
He  was  as  anxious  to  escape  as  you  were,  and 
he  was  shot  from  the  boat,  though  we  all  did  all 
things  to  prevent  him  from  attempting.  He  was 
shot  here."  Gunga  Dass  laid  his  hand  on  his  lean 
stomach  and  bowed  to  the  earth. 

"  Well,  and  what  then  .?    Goon!" 

''And  then— and  then,  Your  Honor,  we  carried 
him  in  to  his  house  and  gave  him  water,  and  put 
wet  cloths  on  the  wound,  and  he  laid  down  in 
his  house  and  gave  up  the  ghost." 

"  In  how  long  ?    In  how  long  ?  " 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes  97 

"About  half  an  hour,  after  he  received  his 
wound.  I  call  Vishn  to  witness,"  yelled  the 
wretched  man,  "that  I  did  everything  for  him. 
Everything  which  was  possible,  that  1  did! " 

He  threw  himself  down  on  the  ground  and 
clasped  my  ankles.  But  I  had  my  doubts  about 
Gunga  Dass's  benevolence,  and  kicked  him  off  as 
he  lay  protesting. 

"  I  believe  you  robbed  him  of  everything  he 
had.  But  I  can  find  out  in  a  minute  or  two. 
How  long  was  the  Sahib  here  ?" 

"Nearly  a  year  and  a  half.  I  think  he  must 
have  gone  mad.  But  hear  me  swear,  Protector 
of  the  Poor!  Won't  Your  Honor  hear  me  swear 
that  I  never  touched  an  article  that  belonged  to 
him  ?    What  is  Your  Worship  going  to  do  ?  " 

I  had  taken  Gunga  Dass  by  the  waist  and  had 
hauled  him  on  to  the  platform  opposite  the  de- 
serted burrow.  As  I  did  so  I  thought  of  my 
wretched  fellow-prisoner's  unspeakable  misery 
among  all  these  horrors  for  eighteen  months,  and 
the  final  agony  of  dying  like  a  rat  in  a  hole,  with 
a  bullet-wound  in  the  stomach.  Gunga  Dass 
fancied  I  was  going  to  kill  him  and  howled  piti- 
fully. The  rest  of  the  population,  in  the  plethora 
that  follows  a  full  flesh  meal,  watched  us  with- 
out stirring. 

"Go  inside,  Gunga  Dass,"  said  I,  "and  fetch 
it  out." 


98  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

I  was  feeling  sick  and  faint  with  horror  now. 
Gunga  Dass  nearly  rolled  off  the  platform  and 
howled  aloud. 

"But  I  am  Brahmin,  Sahib — a  high-caste  Brah- 
min. By  your  soul,  by  your  father's  soul,  do  not 
make  me  do  this  thing!  " 

*'  Brahmin  or  no  Brahmin,  by  my  soul  and  my 
father's  soul,  in  you  go! "  I  said,  and,  seizing  him 
by  the  shoulders,  I  crammed  his  head  into  the 
mouth  of  the  burrow,  kicked  the  rest  of  him  in, 
and,  sitting  down,  covered  my  face  with  my 
hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  few  minutes  I  heard  a  rustle 
and  a  creak;  then  Gunga  Dass  in  a  sobbing, 
choking  whisper  speaking  to  himself;  then  a  soft 
thud — and  I  uncovered  my  eyes. 

The  dry  sand  had  turned  the  corpse  entrusted 
to  its  keeping  into  a  yellow-brown  mummy.  I 
told  Gunga  Dass  to  stand  off  while  I  examined  it. 
The  body — clad  in  an  olive-green  hunting-suit 
much  stained  and  worn,  with  leather  pads  on  the 
shoulders — was  that  of  a  man  between  thirty 
and  forty,  above  middle  height,  with  light,  sandy 
hair,  long  mustache,  and  a  rough  unkempt  beard. 
The  left  canine  of  the  upper  jaw  was  missing, 
and  a  portion  of  the  lobe  of  the  right  ear  was 
gone.  On  the  second  finger  of  the  left  hand  was 
a  ring — a  shield-shaped  bloodstone  set  in  gold, 
with  a  monogram  that  might  have  been  either 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jiihes  99 

'*B.K."  or  ''B.L"  On  the  third  finger  of  the 
right  hand  was  a  silver  ring  in  the  shape  of  a 
coiled  cobra,  much  worn  and  tarnished.  Gunga 
Dass  deposited  a  handful  of  trifles  he  had  picked 
out  of  the  burrow  at  my  feet,  and,  covering  the 
face  of  the  body  with  my  handkerchief,  I  turned 
to  examine  these.  I  give  the  full  list  in  the  hope 
that  it  may  lead  to  the  identification  of  the  un- 
fortunate man : 

1.  Bowl  of  a  briarwood  pipe,  serrated  at  the 
edge;  much  worn  and  blackened;  bound  with 
string  at  the  screw. 

2.  Two  patent-lever  keys;  wards  of  both 
broken. 

3.  Tortoise-shell-handled  penknife,  silver  or 
nickel,  name-plate,  marked  with  monogram 
''B.K." 

4.  Envelope,  postmark  undecipherable,  bear- 
ing a  Victorian  stamp,  addressed  to  ''Miss 
Mon— "  (rest  illegible)—"  ham  "— "  nt." 

5.  Imitation  crocodile-skin  notebook  with 
pencil.  First  forty-five  pages  blank;  four  and  a- 
half  illegible;  fifteen  others  filled  with  private 
memoranda  relating  chiefly  to  three  persons— a 
Mrs.  L.  Singleton,  abbreviated  several  times  to 
''Lot  Single,"  "Mrs.  S.  May,"  and  "Gar- 
mison,"  referred  to  in  places  as  "Jerry"  or 
"Jack." 

6.  Handle      of     small-sized     hunting-knife. 


100  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbte  Jukes 

Blade  snapped  short.  Buck's  horn,  diamond 
cut,  with  swivel  and  ring  on  the  butt;  fragment 
of  cotton  cord  attached. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  I  inventoried  all 
these  things  on  the  spot  as  fully  as  1  have  here 
written  them  down.  The  notebook  first  at- 
tracted my  attention,  and  I  put  it  in  my  pocket 
with  a  view  to  studying  it  later  on.  The  rest  of 
the  articles  1  conveyed  to  my  burrow  for  safety's 
sake,  and  there,  being  a  methodical  man,  I  in- 
ventoried them.  1  then  returned  to  the  corpse 
and  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  help  me  to  carry  it 
out  to  the  river-front.  While  we  were  engaged 
in  this,  the  exploded  shell  of  an  old  brown 
cartridge  dropped  out  of  one  of  the  pockets  and 
rolled  at  my  feet.  Gunga  Dass  had  not  seen  it; 
and  I  fell  to  thinking  that  a  man  does  not  carry 
exploded  cartridge-cases,  especially  "browns," 
which  will  not  bear  loading  twice,  about  with 
him  when  shooting.  In  other  words,  that 
cartridge-case  has  been  fired  inside  the  crater. 
Consequently  there  must  be  a  gun  somewhere. 
I  was  on  the  verge  of  asking  Gunga  Dass,  but 
checked  myself,  knowing  that  he  would  lie. 
We  laid  the  body  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
quicksand  by  the  tussocks.  It  was  my  intention 
to  push  it  out  and  let  it  be  swallowed  up — the 
only  possible  mode  of  burial  that  I  could  think  of. 
I  ordered  Gunga  Dass  to  go  away. 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  loi 

Then  I  gingerly  put  the  corpse  out  on  the 
quicksand.  In  doing  so,  it  was  lying  face  down- 
ward, I  tore  the  frail  and  rotten  khaki  shooting- 
coat  open,  disclosing  a  hideous  cavity  in  the 
back.  I  have  already  told  you  that  the  dry  sand 
had,  as  it  were,  mummified  the  body.  A  mo- 
ment's glance  showed  that  the  gaping  hole  had 
been  caused  by  a  gun-shot  wound;  the  gun  must 
have  been  fired  with  the  muzzle  almost  touching 
the  back.  The  shooting-coat,  being  intact,  had 
been  drawn  over  the  body  after  death,  which 
must  have  been  instantaneous.  The  secret  of 
the  poor  wretch's  death  was  plain  to  me  in  a 
flash.  Some  one  of  the  crater,  presumably 
Gunga  Dass,  must  have  shot  him  with  his  own 
gun — the  gun  that  fitted  the  brown  cartridges. 
He  had  never  attempted  to  escape  in  the  face  of 
the  rifle-fire  from  the  boat. 

I  pushed  the  corpse  out  hastily,  and  saw  it 
sink  from  sight  literally  in  a  few  seconds.  1 
shuddered  as  I  watched.  In  a  dazed,  half-con- 
scious way  1  turned  to  peruse  the  notebook.  A 
stained  and  discolored  slip  of  paper  had  been  in- 
serted between  the  binding  and  the  back,  and 
dropped  out  as  I  opened  the  pages.  This  is 
what  it  contained: — ''Four  out  from  crow- 
clump:  three  left;  nine  out ;  two  right ;  three 
back;  two  left;  fourteen  out;  two  left;  seven 
out ;  one  left ;  nine  back  ;  two  right ;  six  back ; 


102  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

four  right ;  seven  bach."  The  paper  had  been 
burned  and  charred  at  the  edges.  What  it  meant 
I  could  not  understand.  I  sat  down  on  the  dried 
bents  turning  it  over  and  over  between  my 
fingers,  until  1  was  aware  of  Gunga  Dass  stand- 
ing immediately  behind  me  with  glov/ing  eyes 
and  outstretched  hands. 

*' Have  you  got  it.^"  he  panted.  ''Will  you 
not  let  me  look  at  it  also  ?  I  swear  that  I  will 
return  it." 

*'  Got  what  ?    Return  what  ? "  I  asked. 

**  That  which  you  have  in  your  hands.  It  will 
help  us  both."  He  stretched  out  his  long,  bird- 
like talons,  trembling  with  eagerness. 

*'I  could  never  find  it,"  he  continued.  "He 
had  secreted  it  about  his  person.  Therefore 
I  shot  him,  but  nevertheless  1  was  unable  to  ob- 
tain it." 

Gunga  Dass  had  quite  forgotten  his  little 
fiction  about  the  rifle-bullet.  I  received  the  in- 
formation perfectly  calmly.  Morality  is  blunted 
by  consorting  with  the  Dead  who  are  alive. 

''What  on  earth  are  you  raving  about  .^  What 
is  it  you  want  me  to  give  you  ?" 

"  The  piece  of  paper  in  the  notebook.  It 
will  help  us  both.  Oh,  you  fool!  You  fool! 
Can  you  not  see  what  it  will  do  for  us  }  We 
shall  escape!" 

His   voice   rose   almost  to   a  scream,   and  he 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  103 

danced  with  excitement  before  me.  I  own  I 
was  moved  at  the  chance  of  getting  away. 

"Don't  skip!  Explain  yourself.  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  this  slip  of  paper  will  help  us  ?  What 
does  it  mean  .^  " 

"Read  it  aloud!  Read  it  aloud!  I  beg  and  I 
pray  you  to  read  it  aloud." 

I  did  so.  Gunga  Dass  listened  delightedly, 
and  drew  an  irregular  line  in  the  sand  with  his 
fingers. 

"See  now!  It  was  the  length  of  his  gun- 
barrels  without  the  stock.  I  have  those  barrels. 
Four  gun-barrels  out  from  the  place  where  I 
caught  crows.  Straight  out;  do  you  follow  me .? 
Then  three  left —  Ah !  how  well  I  remember  when 
that  man  worked  it  out  night  after  night.  Then 
nine  out,  and  so  on.  Out  is  always  straight  be- 
fore you  across  the  quicksand.  He  told  me  so 
before  I  killed  him." 

"  But  if  you  knew  all  this  why  didn't  you  get 
out  before?" 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  He  told  me  that  he  was 
working  it  out  a  year  and  a  half  ago,  and  how  he 
was  working  it  out  night  after  night  when  the 
boat  had  gone  away,  and  he  could  get  out  near 
the  quicksand  safely.  Then  he  said  that  we 
would  get  away  together.  But  I  was  afraid  that 
he  would  leave  me  behind  one  night  when  he 
had  worked  it  all  out,  and  so  I  shot  him.     Be- 


104  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

sides,  it  is  not  advisable  that  the  men  who  once 
get  in  here  should  escape.  Only  1,  and  /  am  a 
Brahmin." 

The  prospect  of  escape  had  brought  Gunga 
Dass's  caste  back  to  him.  He  stood  up,  walked 
about  and  gesticulated  violently.  Eventually  I 
managed  to  make  him  talk  soberly,  and  he  told 
me  how  this  Englishman  had  spent  six  months 
night  after  night  in  exploring,  inch  by  inch,  the 
passage  across  the  quicksand ;  how  he  had  de- 
clared it  to  be  simplicity  itself  up  to  within  about 
twenty  yards  of  the  river  bank  after  turning  the 
flank  of  the  left  horn  of  the  horseshoe.  This 
much  he  had  evidently  not  completed  when 
Gunga  Dass  shot  him  with  his  own  gun. 

In  my  frenzy  of  delight  at  the  possibilities  of 
escape  I  recollect  shaking  hands  effusively  with 
Gunga  Dass,  after  we  had  decided  that  we  were 
to  make  an  attempt  to  get  away  that  very  night. 
It  was  weary  work  waiting  throughout  the  after- 
noon. 

About  ten  o'clock,  as  far  as  I  could  judge, 
when  the  Moon  had  just  risen  above  the  lip  of 
the  crater,  Gunga  Dass  made  a  move  for  his  bur- 
row to  bring  out  the  gun-barrels  whereby  to 
measure  our  path.  All  the  other  wretched  in- 
habitants had  retired  to  their  lairs  long  ago.  The 
guardian  boat  drifted  down-stream  some  hours 
before,  and  we  were  utterly  alone  by  the  crow- 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  105 

clump.  Gunga  Dass,  while  carrying  the  gun- 
barrels,  let  slip  the  piece  of  paper  which  was  to 
be  our  guide.  I  stooped  down  hastily  to  recover 
it,  and,  as  I  did  so,  I  was  aware  that  the  diaboli- 
cal Brahmin  was  aiming  a  violent  blow  at  the 
back  of  my  head  with  the  gun-barrels.  It  was 
too  late  to  turn  round.  I  must  have  received  the 
blow  somewhere  on  the  nape  of  my  neck.  A 
hundred  thousand  fiery  stars  danced  before  my 
eyes,  and  I  fell  forward  senseless  at  the  edge  of 
the  quicksand. 

When  I  recovered  consciousness,  the  Moon 
was  going  down,  and  I  was  sensible  of  intoler- 
able pain  in  the  back  of  my  head.  Gunga  Dass 
had  disappeared  and  my  mouth  was  full  of  blood. 
I  lay  down  again  and  prayed  that  I  might  die 
without  more  ado.  Then  the  unreasoning  fury 
which  I  have  before  mentioned  laid  hold  upon 
me,  and  I  staggered  inland  toward  the  walls  of 
the  crater.  It  seemed  that  some  one  was  calling 
to  me  in  a  whisper — "Sahib!  Sahib!  Sahib!" 
exactly  as  my  bearer  used  to  call  me  in  the  morn- 
ings. I  fancied  that  I  was  delirious  until  a  hand- 
ful of  sand  fell  at  my  feet.  Then  I  looked  up 
and  saw  a  head  peering  down  into  the  amphi- 
theatre— the  head  of  Dunnoo,  my  dog-boy,  who 
attended  to  my  collies.  As  soon  as  he  had  attracted 
my  attention,  he  held  up  his  hand  and  showed  a 
rope.     I   motioned,    staggering  to  and  fro  the 


lo6  The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes 

while,  that  he  should  throw  it  down.  It  was  a 
couple  of  leather  punkah-ropes  knotted  together, 
with  a  loop  at  one  end.  I  slipped  the  loop  over 
my  head  and  under  my  arms;  heard  Dunnoo 
urge  something  forward;  was  conscious  that  I 
was  being  dragged,  face  downward,  up  the  steep 
sand  slope,  and  the  next  instant  found  myself 
choked  and  half  fainting  on  the  sand  hills  over- 
looking the  crater.  Dunnoo,  with  his  face  ashy 
grey  in  the  moonhght,  implored  me  not  to  stay 
but  to  get  back  to  my  tent  at  once. 

It  seems  that  he  had  tracked  Pornic's  foot- 
prints fourteen  miles  across  the  sands  to  the 
crater;  had  returned  and  told  my  servants,  who 
flatly  refused  to  meddle  with  any  one,  white  or 
black,  once  fallen  into  the  hideous  Village  of  the 
Dead;  whereupon  Dunnoo  had  taken  one  of  my 
ponies  and  a  couple  of  pukah-ropes,  returned 
to  the  crater,  and  hauled  me  out  as  I  have  de- 
scribed. 

To  cut  a  long  story  short,  Dunnoo  is  now  my 
personal  servant  on  a  gold  mohur  a  month — a 
sum  which  I  still  think  far  too  little  for  the  serv- 
ices he  has  rendered.  Nothing  on  earth  will  in- 
duce me  to  go  near  that  devilish  spot  again,  or  to 
reveal  its  whereabouts  more  clearly  than  I  have 
done.  Of  Gunga  Dass  I  have  never  found  a 
trace,  nor  do  I  wish  to  do.  My  sole  motive  in 
giving  this  to  be  published  is  the  hope  that  some 


The  Strange  Ride  of  Morrowbie  Jukes  107 

one  may  possibly  identify,  from  the  details  and 
the  inventory  which  1  have  given  above,  the 
corpse  of  the  man  in  the  olive-green  hunting- 
suit. 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 

"  Brother  to  a  Prince  and  fellow  to  a  beggar  if  he  be  found 
worthy." 

THE  Law,  as  quoted,  lays  down  a  fair  con- 
duct of  life,  and  one  not  easy  to  follow.  I 
have  been  fellow  to  a  beggar  again  and  again 
under  circumstances  which  prevented  either  of 
us  finding  out  whether  the  other  was  worthy.  I 
have  still  to  be  brother  to  a  Prince,  though  1  once 
came  near  to  kinship  with  what  might  have  been 
a  veritable  King  and  was  promised  the  reversion 
of  a  Kingdom — army,  law-courts,  revenue  and 
policy  all  complete.  But,  to-day,  I  greatly  fear 
that  my  King  is  dead,  and  if  I  want  a  crown  I 
must  go  and  hunt  it  for  myself. 

The  beginning  of  everything  was  in  a  railway 
train  upon  the  road  to  Mhow  from  Ajmir.  There 
had  been  a  Deficit  in  the  Budget,  which  neces- 
sitated traveling,  not  Second-class,  which  is  only 
half  as  dear  as  First-class,  but  by  Intermediate, 
which  is  very  awful  indeed.  There  are  no  cush- 
ions in  the  Intermediate  class,  and  the  popula- 
tion are  either  Intermediate,  which  is  Eurasian,  or 
native,  which  for  a  long  night  journey  is  nasty, 
or  Loafer,  which  is  amusing  though  intoxicated. 
Ill 


112  The  Man  Who  Would  he  King 

Intermediates  do  not  patronize  refreshment- 
rooms.  They  carry  their  food  in  bundles  and 
pots,  and  buy  sweets  from  the  native  sweetmeat- 
sellers,  and  drink  the  roadside  water.  That  is 
why  in  the  hot  weather  Intermediates  are  taken 
out  of  the  carriages  dead,  and  in  all  weathers  are 
most  properly  looked  down  upon. 

My  particular  Intermediate  happened  to  be 
empty  till  I  reached  Nasirabad,  when  a  huge 
gentleman  in  shirt-sleeves  entered,  and,  follow- 
ing the  custom  of  Intermediates,  passed  the  time 
of  day.  He  was  a  wanderer  and  a  vagabond  like 
myself,  but  with  an  educated  taste  for  whiskey. 
He  told  tales  of  things  he  had  seen  and  done,  of 
out-of-the-way  corners  of  the  Empire  into  which 
he  had  penetrated,  and  of  adventures  in  which 
he  risked  his  life  for  a  few  days'  food.  "  If  India 
was  filled  with  men  like  you  and  me,  not  know- 
ing more  than  the  crows  where  they'd  get  their 
next  day's  rations,  it  isn't  seventy  millions  of 
revenue  the  land  would  be  paying— it's  seven 
hundred  millions,"  said  he;  and  as  I  looked  at 
his  mouth  and  chin  I  was  disposed  to  agree  with 
him.  We  talked  politics— the  politics  of  Loafer- 
dom  that  sees  things  from  the  underside  where 
the  lath  and  plaster  is  not  smoothed  off— and  we 
talked  postal  arrangements  because  my  friend 
wanted  to  send  a  telegram  back  from  the  next 
station  to  Ajmir,  which  is  the  turning-off  place 


The  Man  IVho  Would  be  King  113 

from  the  Bombay  to  the  Mhow  line  as  you  travel 
westward.  My  friend  had  no  money  beyond 
eight  annas  which  he  wanted  for  dinner,  and  I 
had  no  money  at  all,  owing  to  the  hitch  in  the 
Budget  before  mentioned.  Further,  1  was  going 
into  a  wilderness  where,  though  I  should  resume 
touch  with  the  Treasury,  there  were  no  telegraph 
offices.  I  was,  therefore,  unable  to  help  him  in 
any  way. 

"We  might  threaten  a  Station-master,  and 
make  him  send  a  wire  on  tick,"  said  my  friend, 
"but  that'd  mean  inquiries  for  you  and  for  me, 
and  I've  got  my  hands  full  these  days.  Did  you 
say  you  are  traveling  back  along  this  line  within 
any  days  }  " 

"Within  ten,"  I  said. 

"Can't  you  make  it  eight.?"  said  he.  "Mine 
is  rather  urgent  business." 

"I  can  send  your  telegram  within  ten  days  if 
that  will  serve  you,"  I  said. 

"I  couldn't  trust  the  wire  to  fetch  him  now  f 
think  of  it.  It's  this  way.  He  leaves  Delhi  on 
the  23d  for  Bombay.  That  means  he'll  be  run- 
ning through  Ajmir  about  the  night  of  the  23d." 

"But  I'm  going  into  the  Indian  Desert,"  I  ex- 
plained. 

*  *  Well  and  good,  "said  he.  * '  You'll  be  chang- 
ing at  Marwar  Junction  to  get  into  Jodhpore  ter- 
ritory— you  must  do  that — and  he'll  be  coming 


1 14  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

through  Marwar  Junction  in  the  early  morning  of 
the  24th  by  the  Bombay  Mail.  Can  you  be  at 
Marwar  Junction  on  that  time  ?  'Twon't  be  in- 
conveniencing you  because  I  know  that  there's 
precious  few  pickings  to  be  got  out  of  these 
Central  India  States— even  though  you  pretend 
to  be  correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman." 

'*  Have  you  ever  tried  that  trick  ?"  I  asked. 

"Again  and  again,  but  the  Residents  find  you 
out,  and  then  you  get  escorted  to  the  Border  be- 
fore you've  time  to  get  your  knife  into  them. 
But  about  my  friend  here.  I  must  give  him  a 
word  o'  mouth  to  tell  him  what's  come  to  me  or 
else  he  won't  know  where  to  go.  I  would  take 
it  more  than  kind  of  you  if  you  was  to  come  out 
of  Central  India  in  time  to  catch  him  at  Marwar 
Junction,  and  say  to  him :— '  He  has  gone  South 
for  the  week.'  He'll  know  what  that  means. 
He's  a  big  man  with  a  red  beard,  and  a  great 
swell  he  is.  You'll  find  him  sleeping  like  a 
gentleman  with  all  his  luggage,  round  him  in  a 
Second-class  compartment.  But  don't  you  be 
afraid.  SHp  down  the  window,  and  say: — 'He 
has  gone  South  for  the  week/  and  he'll  tumble. 
It's  only  cutting  your  time  of  stay  in  those  parts 
by  two  days.  I  ask  you  as  a  stranger— going  to 
the  West,"  he  said,  with  emphasis. 

*'  Where  have  you  come  from  ?"  said  I. 

''From  the  East,"  said  he,  "and  I  am  hoping 


The  Man  Who  WotUd  be  King  115 

that  you  will  give  him  the  message  on  the  Square 
— for  the  sake  of  my  Mother  as  well  as  your 
own." 

Englishmen  are  not  usually  softened  by  ap- 
peals to  the  memory  of  their  mothers,  but  for 
certain  reasons,  which  will  be  fully  apparent,  I 
saw  fit  to  agree. 

'Mt's  more  than  a  little  matter,"  said  he,  **and 
that's  why  I  ask  you  to  do  it — and  now  1  know 
that  I  can  depend  on  you  doing  it.  A  Second- 
class  carriage  at  Marwar  Junction,  and  a  red- 
haired  man  asleep  in  it.  You'll  be  sure  to  re- 
member. I  get  out  at  the  next  station,  and  I 
must  hold  on  there  till  he  comes  or  sends  me 
what  I  want." 

"I'll  give  the  message  if  I  catch  him,"  I  said, 
''and  for  the  sake  of  your  Mother  as  well  as 
mine  I'll  give  you  a  word  of  advice.  Don't  try 
to  run  the  Central  India  States  just  now  as  the 
correspondent  of  the  Backwoodsman.  There's  a 
real  one  knocking  about  here,  and  it  might  lead 
to  trouble." 

''  Thank  you,"  said  he,  simply,  "and  when  will 
the  swine  be  gone  ?  I  can't  starve  because  he's 
ruining  my  work.  I  wanted  to  get  hold  of  the 
Degumber  Rajah  down  here  about  his  father's 
widow,  and  give  him  a  jump." 

"What  did  he  do  to  his  father's  widow, 
then  }  " 


Ii6  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

"  Filled  her  up  with  red  pepper  and  slippered 
her  to  death  as  she  hung  from  a  beam.  1  found 
that  out  myself  and  I'm  the  only  man  that  would 
dare  going  into  the  State  to  get  hush-money  for 
it.  They'll  try  to  poison  me,  same  as  they  did 
in  Chortumna  when  1  went  on  the  loot  there. 
But  you'll  give  the  man  at  Marwar  Junction  my 
message  }  " 

He  got  out  at  a  little  roadside  station,  and  I  re- 
flected. I  had  heard,  more  than  once,  of  men 
personating  correspondents  of  newspapers  and 
bleeding  small  Native  States  with  threats  of 
exposure,  but  I  had  never  met  any  of  the  caste 
before.  They  lead  a  hard  life,  and  generally  die 
with  great  suddenness.  The  Native  States  have 
a  wholesome  horror  of  English  newspapers, 
which  may  throw  light  on  their  peculiar 
methods  of  government,  and  do  their  best  to 
choke  correspondents  with  champagne,  or  drive 
them  out  of  their  mind  with  four-in-hand 
barouches.  They  do  not  understand  that  no- 
body cares  a  straw  for  the  internal  administration 
of  Native  States  so  long  as  oppression  and  crime 
are  kept  within  decent  limits,  and  the  ruler  is  not 
drugged,  drunk,  or  diseased  from  one  end  of  the 
year  to  the  other.  Native  States  were  created  by 
Providence  in  order  to  supply  picturesque  scenery, 
tigers,  and  tall-writing.  They  are  the  dark  places 
of  the  earth,  full  of  unimaginable  cruelty,  touch- 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 17 

ing  the  Railway  and  the  Telegraph  on  one  side, 
and,  on  the  other,  the  days  of  Harun-al-Raschid. 
When  I  left  the  train  I  did  business  with  divers 
Kings,  and  in  eight  days  passed  through  many 
changes  of  life.  Sometimes  I  wore  dress-clothes 
and  consorted  with  Princes  and  Politicals,  drinking 
from  crystal  and  eating  from  silver.  Sometimes 
I  lay  out  upon  the  ground  and  devoured  what  I 
could  get,  from  a  plate  made  of  a  flapjack,  and 
drank  the  running  water,  and  slept  under  the 
same  rug  as  my  servant.  It  was  all  in  the  day's 
work. 

Then  I  headed  for  the  Great  Indian  Desert  upon 
the  proper  date,  as  I  had  promised,  and  the  night 
Mail  set  me  down  at  Marwar  Junction,  where  a 
funny  little,  happy-go-lucky,  native-managed 
railway  runs  to  Jodhpore.  The  Bombay  Mail 
from  Delhi  makes  a  short  halt  at  Marwar.  She 
arrived  as  I  got  in,  and  I  had  just  time  to  hurry 
to  her  platform  and  go  down  the  carriages. 
There  was  only  one  Second-class  on  the  train.  I 
slipped  the  window  and  looked  down  upon  a 
flaming  red  beard,  half  covered  by  a  railway  rug. 
That  was  my  man,  fast  asleep,  and  I  dug  him 
gently  in  the  ribs.  He  woke  with  a  grunt  and  I 
saw  his  face  in  the  light  of  the  lamps.  It  was  a 
great  and  shining  face. 

"  Tickets  again  ?"  said  he. 

"No,"  said  I.     "I  am  to  tell  you  that  he  is 


1 18  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

gone  South  for  the  week.  He  is  gone  South  for 
the  week!" 

The  train  had  begun  to  move  out.  The  red 
man  rubbed  his  eyes.  "  He  has  gone  South  for 
the  week,"  he  repeated.  *'Now  that's  just  like 
his  impidence.  Did  he  say  that  I  was  to  give 
you  anything.? — 'Cause  I  won't." 

"He  didn't,"  I  said,  and  dropped  away,  and 
watched  the  red  liglits  die  out  in  the  dark.  It 
was  horribly  cold  because  the  wind  was  blowing 
off  the  sands.  I  climbed  into  my  own  train — not 
an  Intermediate  Carriage  this  time — and  went  to 
sleep. 

If  the  man  with  the  beard  had  given  me  a 
rupee  I  should  have  kept  it  as  a  memento  of  a 
rather  curious  affair.  But  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  my  duty  was  my  only  reward. 

Later  on  I  reflected  that  two  gentlemen  like  my 
friends  could  not  do  any  good  if  they  foregath- 
ered and  personated  correspondents  of  news- 
papers, and  might,  if  they  ''stuck  up"  one  of 
the  little  rat-trap  states  of  Central  India  or  South- 
ern Rajputana,  get  themselves  into  serious  diffi- 
culties. I  therefore  took  some  trouble  to  de- 
scribe them  as  accurately  as  I  could  remember 
to  people  who  would  be  interested  in  deporting 
them:  and  succeeded,  so  I  was  later  informed, 
in  having  them  headed  back  from  the  Degumber 
borders. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 19 

Then  I  became  respectable,  and  returned  to  an 
Office  where  there  were  no  Kings  and  no  in- 
cidents except  the  daily  manufacture  of  a  news- 
paper. A  newspaper  office  seems  to  attract  every 
conceivable  sort  of  person,  to  the  prejudice  of 
discipline.  Zenana-mission  ladies  arrive,  and  beg 
that  the  Editor  will  instantly  abandon  all  his 
duties  to  describe  a  Christian  prize-giving  in  a 
back-slum  of  a  perfectly  inaccessible  village; 
Colonels  who  have  been  overpassed  for  com- 
mands sit  down  and  sketch  the  outline  of  a  series 
of  ten,  twelve,  or  twenty-four  leading  articles  on 
Seniority  versus  Selection ;  missionaries  wish  to 
know  why  they  have  not  been  permitted  to 
escape  from  their  regular  vehicles  of  abuse  and 
swear  at  a  brother-missionary  under  special  pat- 
ronage of  the  editorial  We;  stranded  theatrical 
companies  troop  up  to  explain  that  they  cannot 
pay  for  their  advertisements,  but  on  their  return 
from  New  Zealand  or  Tahiti  will  do  so  with 
interest;  inventors  of  patent  punkah-pulling 
machines,  carriage  couplings  and  unbreakable 
swords  and  axle-trees  call  with  specifications  in 
their  pockets  and  hours  at  their  disposal;  tea- 
companies  enter  and  elaborate  their  prospectuses 
with  the  office  pens;  secretaries  of  ball-commit- 
tees clamor  to  have  the  glories  of  their  last  dance 
more  fully  expounded;  strange  ladies  rustle  in 
and  say : — '*  1  want  a  hundred  lady's  cards  printed 


120  The  Man  Who  Would  he  King 

at  once,  please,"  which  is  manifestly  part  of  an 
Editor's  duty;  and  every  dissolute  ruffian  that 
ever  tramped  the  Grand  Trunk  Road  makes  it  his 
business  to  ask  for  employment  as  a  proof- 
reader. And,  all  the  time,  the  telephone-bell  is 
ringing  madly,  and  Kings  are  being  killed  on  the 
Continent,  and  Empires  are  saying — ''You're  an- 
other," and  Mister  Gladstone  is  calling  down 
brimstone  upon  the  British  Dominions,  and  the 
little  black  copy-boys  are  whining,  ''  kaa-pi  chay- 
ha-yeh"  (copy  wanted)  like  tired  bees,  and  most 
of  the  paper  is  as  blank  as  Modred's  shield. 

But  that  is  the  amusing  part  of  the  year. 
There  are  other  six  months  wherein  none  ever 
come  to  call,  and  the  thermometer  walks  inch  by 
inch  up  to  the  top  of  the  glass,  and  the  office  is 
darkened  to  just  above  reading-light,  and  the 
press  machines  are  red-hot  of  touch,  and  nobody 
writes  anything  but  accounts  of  amusements  in 
the  Hill-stations  or  obituary  notices.  Then  the 
telephone  becomes  a  tinkling  terror,  because  it 
tells  you  of  the  sudden  deaths  of  men  and 
women  that  you  knew  intimately,  and  the 
prickly-heat  covers  you  as  with  a  garment,  and 
you  sit  down  and  write: — "A  slight  increase  of 
sickness  is  reported  from  the  Khuda  Janta  Khan 
District.  The  outbreak  is  purely  sporadic  in  its 
nature,  and,  thanks  to  the  energetic  efforts  of  the 
District  authorities,  is  now  almost  at  an  end.     It 


The  Man  IVho  Would  be  King  121 

is,  however,  with   deep   regret  we  record  the 
death,  etc." 

Then  the  sickness  really  breaks  out,  and  the 
less  recording  and  reporting  the  better  for  the 
peace  of  the  subscribers.  But  the  Empires  and 
the  Kings  continue  to  divert  themselves  as  sel- 
fishly as  before,  and  the  Foreman  thinks  that  a 
daily  paper  really  ought  to  come  out  once  in 
twenty-four  hours,  and  all  the  people  at  the 
Hill-stations  in  the  middle  of  their  amusements 
say : — ' '  Good  gracious !  Why  can't  the  paper  be 
sparkling  }  I'm  sure  there's  plenty  going  on  up 
here." 

That  is  the  dark  half  of  the  moon,  and,  as  the 
advertisements  say,  ''must  be  experienced  to  be 
appreciated." 

It  was  in  that  season,  and  a  remarkably  evil 
season,  that  the  paper  began  running  the  last 
issue  of  the  week  on  Saturday  night,  which  is  to 
say  Sunday  morning,  after  the  custom  of  a 
London  paper.  This  was  a  great  convenience, 
for  immediately  after  the  paper  was  put  to  bed, 
the  dawn  would  lower  the  thermometer  from 
96°  to  almost  84°  for  half  an  hour,  and  in  that 
chill — you  have  no  idea  how  cold  is  84°  on  the 
grass  until  you  begin  to  pray  for  it — a  very  tired 
man  could  set  off  to  sleep  ere  the  heat  roused 
him. 

One  Saturday  night  it  was  my  pleasant  duty  to 


122  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

put  the  paper  to  bed  alone.  A  King  or  courtier 
or  a  courtesan  or  a  community  was  going  to  die 
or  get  a  new  Constitution,  or  do  something  that 
was  important  on  the  other  side  of  the  world, 
and  the  paper  was  to  be  held  open  till  the  latest 
possible  minute  in  order  to  catch  the  telegram. 
It  was  a  pitchy  black  night,  as  stifling  as  a  June 
night  can  be,  and  the  loo,  the  red-hot  wind  from 
the  westward,  was  booming  among  the  tinder- 
dry  trees  and  pretending  that  the  rain  was  on  its 
heels.  Now  and  again  a  spot  of  almost  boiling 
water  would  fall  on  the  dust  with  the  flop  of  a 
frog,  but  all  our  weary  world  knev/  that  was 
only  pretence.  It  was  a  shade  cooler  in  the 
press-room  than  the  office,  so  I  sat  there,  while 
the  type  ticked  and  clicked,  and  the  night-jars 
hooted  at  the  windows,  and  the  all  but  naked 
compositors  wiped  the  sweat  from  their  fore- 
heads and  called  for  water.  The  thing  that  was 
keeping  us  back,  whatever  it  was,  would  not 
come  off,  though  the  loo  dropped  and  the  last 
type  was  set,  and  the  whole  round  earth  stood 
still  in  the  choking  heat,  with  its  finger  on  its 
lip,  to  wait  the  event.  I  drowsed,  and  wondered 
whether  the  telegraph  was  a  blessing,  and 
whether  this  dying  man,  or  struggling  people, 
was  aware  of  the  inconvenience  the  delay  was 
causing.  There  was  no  special  reason  beyond 
the  heat  and  worry  to  make  tension,  but,  as  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  he  King  123 

clock  hands  crept  up  to  three  o'clock  and  the 
machines  spun  their  fly-wheels  two  and  three 
times  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  before  I  said 
the  word  that  would  set  them  off,  I  could  have 
shrieked  aloud. 

Then  the  roar  and  rattle  of  the  wheels  shivered 
the  quiet  into  little  bits.  I  rose  to  go  away,  but 
two  men  in  white  clothes  stood  in  front  of  me. 
The  first  one  said: — "It's  him!"  The  second 
said: — "So  it  is!"  And  they  both  laughed 
almost  as  loudly  as  the  machinery  roared,  and 
mopped  their  foreheads.  "  We  see  there  was  a 
light  burning  across  the  road  and  we  were  sleep- 
ing in  that  ditch  there  for  coolness,  and  I  said  to 
my  friend  here,  The  office  is  open.  Let's  come 
along  and  speak  to  him  as  turned  us  back  from 
the  Degumber  State/'  said  the  smaller  of  the 
two.  He  was  the  man  I  had  met  in  the  Mhow 
train,  and  his  fellow  was  the  red-bearded  man  of 
Marwar  Junction.  There  was  no  mistaking 
the  eyebrows  of  the  one  or  the  beard  of  the 
other. 

I  was  not  pleased,  because  I  wished  to  go  to 
sleep,  not  to  squabble  with  loafers.  "  What  do 
you  want  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Half  an  hour's  talk  with  you  cool  and  com- 
fortable, in  the  office,"  said  the  red-bearded  man. 
"We'd  like  some  drink — the  Contrack  doesn't 
begin  yet,  Peachey,  so  you   needn't  look — but 


124  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

what  we  really  want  is  advice.  We  don't  want 
money.  We  ask  you  as  a  favor,  because  you  did 
us  a  bad  turn  about  Degumber." 

I  led  from  the  press-room  to  the  stifling  office 
with  the  maps  on  the  walls,  and  the  red-haired 
man  rubbed  his  hands.  "That's  something 
like,"  said  he.  ''This  was  the  proper  shop  to 
come  to.  Now,  Sir,  let  me  introduce  to  you 
Brother  Peachey  Carnehan,  that's  him,  and 
Brother  Daniel  Dravot,  that  is  me,  and  the  less 
said  about  our  professions  the  better,  for  we  have 
been  most  things  in  our  time.  Soldier,  sailor, 
compositor,  photographer,  proof-reader,  street- 
preacher,  and  correspondents  of  the  Backwoods- 
man when  we  thought  the  paper  wanted  one. 
Carnehan  is  sober,  and  so  am  I.  Look  at  us  first 
and  see  that's  sure.  It  will  save  you  cutting  into 
my  talk.  We'll  take  one  of  your  cigars  apiece, 
and  you  shall  see  us  light." 

I  watched  the  test.  The  men  were  absolutely 
sober,  so  I  gave  them  each  a  tepid  peg. 

**  Well  and  good,"  said  Carnehan  of  the  eye- 
brows, wiping  the  froth  from  his  moustache. 
*'  Let  me  talk  now,  Dan.  We  have  been  all  over 
India,  mostly  on  foot.  We  have  been  boiler- 
fitters,  engine-drivers,  petty  contractors,  and  all 
that,  and  we  have  decided  that  India  isn't  big 
enough  for  such  as  us." 

They  certainly  were  too   big  for  the   office. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  125 

Dravot's  beard  seemed  to,  fill  half  the  room 
and  Carnehan's  shoulders  the  other  half,  as  they 
sat  on  the  big  table.  Carnehan  continued: — 
**The  country  isn't  half  worked  out  because  they 
that  governs  it  won't  let  you  touch  it.  They 
spend  all  their  blessed  time  in  governing  it,  and 
you  can't  lift  a  spade,  nor  chip  a  rock,  nor  look 
for  oil,  nor  anything  like  that  without  all  the 
Government  saying — '  Leave  it  alone  and  let  us 
govern.'  Therefore,  such  as  it  is,  we  will  let  it 
alone,  and  go  away  to  some  other  place  where  a 
man  isn't  crowded  and  can  come  to  his  own. 
We  are  not  little  men,  and  there  is  nothing  that 
we  are  afraid  of  except  Drink,  and  we  have 
signed  a  Contrack  on  that.  Therefore,  we  are 
going  away  to  be  Kings." 

"Kings  in  our  own  right,"  muttered  Dravot. 

*'Yes,  of  course,"  I  said.  **  You've  been 
tramping  in  the  sun,  and  it's  a  very  warm  night, 
and  hadn't  you  better  sleep  over  the  notion  } 
Come  to-morrow." 

"Neither  drunk  nor  sunstruck,"  said  Dravot. 
"  We  have  slept  over  the  notion  half  a  year,  and 
require  to  see  Books  and  Atlases,  and  we  have 
decided  that  there  is  only  one  place  now  in  the 
world  that  two  strong  men  can  S'AX-2i-whack. 
They  call  it  Kafiristan.  By  my  reckoning  it's  the 
top  right-hand  corner  of  Afghanistan,  not  more 
than  three  hundred  miles  from  Peshawur.     They 


126  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

have  two  and  thirty  heathen  idols  there,  and 
we'll  be  the  thirty-third.  It's  a  mountaineous 
country,  and  the  women  of  those  parts  are  very 
beautiful." 

**  But  that  is  provided  against  in  the  Contrack," 
said  Carnehan.  "Neither  Women  nor  Liqu-or, 
Daniel." 

''And  that's  all  we  know,  except  that  no  one 
has  gone  there,  and  they  fight,  and  in  any  place 
where  they  fight  a  man  who  knows  how  to  drill 
men  can  always  be  a  King.  We  shall  go  to 
those  parts  and  say  to  any  King  we  find—'  D' 
you  want  to  vanquish  your  foes?'  and  we  will 
show  him  how  to  drill  men;  for  that  we  know 
better  than  anything  else.  Then  we  will  subvert 
that  King  and  seize  his  Throne  and  establish  a 
Dy-nasty." 

"You'll  be  cut  to  pieces  before  you're  fifty 
miles  across  the  Border,"  I  said.  "You  have  to 
travel  through  Afghanistan  to  get  to  that  coun- 
try. It's  one  mass  of  mountains  and  peaks  and 
glaciers,  and  no  Englishman  has  been  through 
it.  The  people  are  utter  brutes,  and  even  if  you 
reached  them  you  couldn't  do  anything." 

"Thafs  more  Hke,"  said  Carnehan.  "  If  you 
could  think  us  a  little  more  mad  we  would  be 
more  pleased.  We  have  come  to  you  to  know 
about  this  country,  to  read  a  book  about  it,  and 
to  be  shown  maps.     We  want  you  to  tell  us  that 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  127 

we  are  fools  and  to  show  us  your  books."  He 
turned  to  the  bookcases. 

*'  Are  you  at  all  in  earnest  }  "  I  said. 

"A  little,"  said  Dravot,  sweetly.  *' As  big  a 
map  as  you  have  got,  even  if  it's  all  blank  where 
Kafiristan  is,  and  any  books  you've  got.  We 
can  read,  though  we  aren't  very  educated." 

I  uncased  the  big  thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch 
map  of  India,  and  two  smaller  Frontier  maps, 
hauled  down  volume  INF-KAN  of  the  Encyclo- 
pcedia  Brittanica,  and  the  men  consulted  them. 

"See  here!"  said  Dravot,  his  thumb  on  the 
map.  *'  Up  to  Jagdallak,  Peachey  and  me  know 
the  road.  We  was  there  with  Roberts's  Army. 
We'll  have  to  turn  off  to  the  right  at  Jagdallak 
through  Laghmann  territory.  Then  we  get 
among  the  hills — fourteen  thousand  feet — fifteen 
thousand — it  will  be  cold  work  there,  but  it  don't 
look  very  far  on  the  map." 

I  handed  him  Wood  on  the  Sources  of  the 
Oxus.     Carnehan  was  deep  in  the  Encyclopcndia. 

"They're  a  mixed  lot,"  said  Dravot,  reflec- 
tively ;  "and  it  won't  help  us  to  know  the  names 
of  their  tribes.  The  more  tribes  the  more  they'll 
fight,  and  the  better  for  us.  From  Jagdallak  to 
Ashang.     H'mm!" 

"But  all  the  information  about  the  country  is 
as  sketchy  and  inaccurate  as  can  be,"  I  protested. 
"No  one  knows  anything  about  it  really.     Here's 


128  '    The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

the  file  of  the  United  Services'  Institute.  Read 
what  Bellew  says." 

**Blow  Bellew!"  said  Carnehan.  ''Dan, 
they're  an  all-fired  lot  of  heathens,  but  this  book 
here  says  they  think  they're  related  to  us  English." 

I  smoked  while  the  men  pored  over  Raveriy, 
Wood,  the  maps  and  the  Encyclopcedia. 

**  There  is  no  use  your  waiting,"  said  Dravot, 
politely.  'Mt's  about  four  o'clock  now.  We'll 
go  before  six  o'clock  if  you  want  to  sleep,  and 
we  won't  steal  any  of  the  papers.  Don't  you 
sit  up.  We're  two  harmless  lunatics,  and  if  you 
come,  to-morrow  evening,  down  to  the  Serai 
we'll  say  good-bye  to  you." 

''You  are  two  fools,"  I  answered.  "You'll 
be  turned  back  at  the  Frontier  or  cut  up  the  min- 
ute you  set  foot  in  Afghanistan.  Do  you  want 
any  money  or  a  recommendation  down-country .? 
I  can  help  you  to  the  chance  of  work  next  week." 

"Next  week  we  shall  be  hard  at  work  our- 
selves, thank  you,"  said  Dravot.  "It  isn't  so 
easy  being  a  King  as  it  looks.  When  we've  got 
our  Kingdom  in  going  order  we'll  let  you  know, 
and  you  can  come  up  and  help  us  to  govern  it." 

"Would  two  lunatics  make  a  Contrack  like 
that?"  said  Carnehan,  M'ith  subdued  pride, 
showing  me  a  greasy  half-sheet  of  note-paper 
on  which  was  written  the  following.  I  copied 
it,  then  and  there,  as  a  curiosity: 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  129 

This  Contract  between  me  and  you  persuing 
witnesseth  in  the  name  of  God — Amen  and  so 
forth. 

{One)     That  me  and  you  will  settle  this  matter 
together :  i.  e.,  to  be  Kings  of  Kafir ~ 
istan. 
( Two)     That  you  and  me  will  not,  while  this 
matter  is  being  settled,  look  at  any 
Liquor,  nor  any  Woman,  black,  white 
or  brown,  so  as  to  get  mixed  up  with 
one  or  the  other  harmful. 
( Three)    That  we  conduct  ourselves  with  dignity 
and  discretion,  and  if  one  of  us  gets 
into  trouble  the  other  will  stay  by 
him. 
Signed  by  you  and  me  this  day. 

Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan. 

Daniel  Dravot. 

Both  Gentlemen  at  Large. 

"There  was  no  need  for  the  last  article,"  said 
Carnehan,  blushing  modestly;  "  but  it  looks  reg- 
ular. Now  you  know  the  sort  of  men  that  loaf- 
ers are — we  are  loafers,  Dan,  until  we  get  out  of 
India — and  do  you  think  that  we  would  sign  a 
Contrack  like  that  unless  we  was  in  earnest  ? 
We  have  kept  away  from  the  two  things  that 
make  life  worth  having." 

**  You  won't  enjoy  your  lives  much  longer  if 


1^0  The  Man  IV ho  Would  be  King 

you  are  going  to  try  this  idiotic  adventure.  Don't 
set  the  office  on  fire,"  I  said,  "and  go  away  be- 
fore nine  o'clock." 

I  left  them  still  poring  over  the  maps  and 
making  notes  on  the  back  of  the  ''Contrack." 
*'  Be  sure  to  come  down  to  the  Serai  to-morrow," 
were  their  parting  words. 

The  Kumharsen  Serai  is  the  great  four-square 
sink  of  humanity  where  the  strings  of  camels 
and  horses  from  the  North  load  and  unload.  All 
the  nationalities  of  Central  Asia  may  be  found 
there,  and  most  of  the  folk  of  India  proper. 
Balkh  and  Bokhara  there  meet  Bengal  and  Bom- 
bay, and  try  to  draw  eye-teeth.  You  can  buy 
ponies,  turquoises,  Persian  pussy-cats,  saddle- 
bags, fat-tailed  sheep  and  musk  in  the  Kum- 
harsen Serai,  and  get  many  strange  things  for 
nothing.  In  the  afternoon  I  went  down  there  to 
see  whether  my  friends  intended  to  keep  their 
word  or  were  lying  about  drunk. 

A  priest  attired  in  fragments  of  ribbons  and 
rags  stalked  up  to  me,  gravely  twisting  a  child's 
paper  whirligig.  Behind  him  was  his  servant 
bending  under  the  load  of  a  crate  of  mud  toys. 
The  two  were  loading  up  two  camels,  and  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Serai  watched  them  with 
shrieks  of  laughter. 

"The  priest  is  mad,"  said  a  horse-dealer  to  me. 
**  He  is  going  up  to  Kabul  to  sell  toys  to  the  Amir. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  iji 

He  will  either  be  raised  to  honor  or  have  his  head 
cut  off.  He  came  in  here  this  morning  and  has 
been  behaving  madly  ever  since." 

**  The  witless  are  under  the  protection  of  God," 
stammered  a  flat-cheeked  Usbeg  in  broken  Hindi. 
*' They  foretell  future  events." 

''Would  they  could  have  foretold  that  my  car- 
avan would  have  been  cut  up  by  the  Shinwaris 
almost  within  shadow  of  the  Pass!"  grunted  the 
Eusufzai  agent  of  a  Rajputana  trading-house 
whose  goods  had  been  feloniously  diverted  into 
the  hands  of  other  robbers  just  across  the  Border, 
and  whose  misfortunes  were  the  laughing-stock 
of  the  bazar.  ''  Ohe,  priest,  whence  come  you 
and  whither  do  you  go  .^" 

*'  From  Roum  have  1  come,"  shouted  the  priest, 
waving  his  whirligig;  "from  Roum,  blown  by 
the  breath  of  a  hundred  devils  across  the  sea! 
O  thieves,  robbers,  liars,  the  blessing  of  Pir 
Khan  on  pigs,  dogs,  and  perjurers!  Who  will 
take  the  Protected  of  God  to  the  North  to  sell 
charms  that  are  never  still  to  the  Amir.?  The 
camels  shall  not  gall,  the  sons  shall  not  fall  sick, 
and  the  wives  shall  remain  faithful  while  they 
are  away,  of  the  men  who  give  me  place  in  their 
caravan.  Who  will  assist  me  to  slipper  the  King 
of  the  Roos  with  a  golden  slipper  with  a. silver 
heel }  The  protection  of  Pir  Khan  be  upon  his 
labors!"     He  spread  out  the  skirts  of  his  gaber- 


l}2  The  Man  Who  IVould  be  King 

dine  and  pirouetted  between  the  lines  of  tethered 
horses. 

''There  starts  a  caravan  from  Peshawur  to 
Kabul  in  twenty  days,  Huirut/'  said  the  Eusufzai 
trader.  *'  My  camels  go  therewith.  Do  thou  also 
go  and  bring  us  good-luck." 

"1  will  go  even  now!"  shouted  the  priest. 
''I  will  depart  upon  my  winged  camels,  and  be 
at  Pasha wur  in  a  day!  Hoi  Hazar  Mir  Khan," 
he  yelled  to  his  servant,  "drive  out  the  camels, 
but  let  me  first  mount  my  own." 

He  leaped  on  the  back  of  his  beast  as  it  knelt, 
and,  turning  round  to  me,  cried: — "Come  thou 
also,  Sahib,  a  little  along  the  road,  and  I  will  sell 
thee  a  charm — an  amulet  that  shall  make  thee 
King  of  Kafiristan." 

Then  the  light  broke  upon  me,  and  I  followed 
the  two  camels  out  of  the  Serai  till  we  reached 
open  road  and  the  priest  halted. 

"What  d'  you  think  o'  that.?"  said  he  in 
English.  "Carnehan  can't  talk  their  patter,  so 
I've  made  him  my  servant.  He  makes  a  hand- 
some servant.  Tisn't  for  nothing  that  I've  been 
knocking  about  the  country  for  fourteen  years. 
Didn't  I  do  that  talk  neat.?  We'll  hitch  on  to 
a  caravan  at  Peshawur  till  we  get  to  Jagdallak, 
and  then  we'll  see  if  we  can  get  donkeys  for 
our  camels,  and  strike  into  Kafiristan.  Whirl- 
igigs  for    the   Amir,    O    Lor!     Put   your    hand 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  13) 

under    the  camel-bags  and  tell  me  what  you 
feel." 

I  felt  the  butt  of  a  Martini,  and  another  and 
another. 

'*  Twenty  of  'em,"  said  Dravot,  placidly. 
*' Twenty  of  'em,  and  ammunition  to  correspond, 
under  the  whirligigs  and  the  mud  dolls." 

"  Heaven  help  you  if  you  are  caught  with 
those  things!"  I  said.  "A  Martini  is  worth  her 
weight  in  silver  among  the  Pathans." 

''Fifteen  hundred  rupees  of  capital— every  ru- 
pee we  could  beg,  borrow,  or  steal— are  invested 
on  these  two  camels,"  said  Dravot.  "We  won't 
get  caught.  We're  going  through  the  Khaiber 
with  a  regular  caravan.  Who'd  touch  a  poor 
mad  priest  ?  " 

**  Have  you  got  everything  you  want  ?"  I  asked, 
overcome  with  astonishment. 

''Not  yet,  but  we  shall  soon.  Give  us  a  me- 
mento of  your  kindness,  Brother.  You  did  me 
a  service  yesterday,  and  that  time  in  Marwar. 
Half  my  Kingdom  shall  you  have,  as  the  saying 
is."  I  slipped  a  small  charm  compass  from  my 
watch-chain  and  handed  it  up  to  the  priest. 

"Good-bye,"  said  Dravot,  giving  me  hand 
cautiously.  "  It's  the  last  time  we'll  shake  hands 
with  an  Englishman  these  many  days.  Shake 
hands  with  him,  Carnehan,"  he  cried,  as  the  sec- 
ond camel  passed  me. 


134  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

Carnehan  leaned  down  and  shook  hands.  Then 
the  camels  passed  away  along  the  dusty  road, 
and  I  was  left  alone  to  wonder.  My  eye  could 
detect  no  failure  in  the  disguises.  The  scene  in 
Serai  attested  that  they  were  complete  to  the 
native  mind.  There  was  just  the  chance,  there- 
fore, that  Carnehan  and  Dravot  would  be  able  to 
wander  through  Afghanistan  without  detection. 
But,  beyond,  they  would  find  death,  certain  and 
awful  death. 

Ten  days  later  a  native  friend  of  mine,  giving 
me  the  news  of  the  day  from  Peshawur,  wound 
up  his  letter  with : — ' '  There  has  been  much  laugh- 
ter here  on  account  of  a  certain  mad  priest  who 
is  going  in  his  estimation  to  sell  petty  gauds  and 
insignificant  trinkets  which  he  ascribes  as  great 
charms  to  H.  H.  the  Amir  of  Bokhara.  He  passed 
through  Peshawur  and  associated  himself  to  the 
Second  Summer  caravan  that  goes  to  Kabul.  The 
merchants  are  pleased  because  through  supersti- 
tion they  imagine  that  such  mad  fellows  bring 
good-fortune." 

The  two,  then,  were  beyond  the  Border.  I 
would  have  prayed  for  them,  but,  that  night,  a 
real  King  died  in  Europe,  and  demanded  on  obit- 
uary notice. 


The  wheel  of  the  world  swings  through  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  135 

same  phases  again  and  again.  Summer  passed 
and  winter  thereafter,  and  came  and  passed 
again.  The  daily  paper  continued  and  I  with  it, 
and  upon  the  third  summer  there  fell  a  hot  night, 
a  night-issue,  and  a  strained  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  be  telegraphed  from  the  other  side  of  the 
world,  exactly  as  had  happened  before.  A  few 
great  men  had  died  in  the  past  two  years,  the 
machines  worked  with  more  clatter,  and  some  of 
the  trees  in  the  Office  garden  were  a  few  feet 
taller.     But  that  was  all  the  difference. 

I  passed  over  to  the  press-room,  and  went 
through  just  such  a  scene  as  I  have  already  de- 
scribed. The  nervous  tension  was  stronger  than 
it  had  been  two  years  before,  and  I  felt  the  heat 
more  acutely.  At  three  o'clock  I  cried,  ''Print 
off,"  and  turned  to  go,  when  there  crept  to  my 
chair  what  was  left  of  a  man.  He  was  bent  into 
a  circle,  his  head  was  sunk  between  his  shoul- 
ders, and  he  moved  his  feet  one  over  the  other 
like  a  bear.  I  could  hardly  see  whether  he 
walked  or  crawled— this  rag-wrapped,  whining 
cripple  who  addressed  me  by  name,  crying  that 
he  was  come  back.  *' Can  you  give  me  a  drink?" 
he  whimpered.  ''  For  the  Lord's  sake,  give  me  a 
drink!" 

I  went  back  to  the  office,  the  man  following 
with  groans  of  pain,  and  I  turned  up  the  lamp. 

'•'  Don't  you  know  me  ?"  he  gasped,  dropping 


136  The  Man  Who  IVotild  be  King 

into  a  chair,  and  he  turned  his  drawn  face, 
surmounted  by  a  shock  of  grey  hair,  to  the 
light. 

I  looked  at  him  intently.  Once  before  had  I 
seen  eyebrows  that  met  over  the  nose  in  an  inch- 
broad  black  band,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could 
not  tell  where. 

*'I  don't  know  you,"  1  said,  handing  him  the 
whiskey.     ''What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

He  took  a  gulp  of  the  spirit  raw,  and  shivered 
in  spite  of  the  suffocating  heat. 

''I've  come  back,"  he  repeated;  "and  I  was 
the  King  of  Kafiristan — me  and  Dravot — crowned 
Kings  we  was!  In  this  office  we  settled  it — you 
setting  there  and  giving  us  the  books.  I  am 
Peachey  —  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan,  and 
you've  been  setting  here  ever  since — O  Lord!" 

I  was  more  than  a  little  astonished,  and  ex- 
pressed my  feelings  accordingly. 

''It's  true,"  said  Carnehan,  with  a  dry  cackle, 
nursing  his  feet,  which  were  wrapped  in  rags. 
*'True  as  gospel.  Kings  we  were,  with  crowns 
upon  our  heads— me  and  Dravot — poor  Dan — oh, 
poor,  poor  Dan,  that  would  never  take  advice, 
not  though  I  begged  of  him!  " 

*'Take  the  whiskey,"  I  said,  "and  take  your 
own  time.  Tell  me  all  you  can  recollect  of 
everything  from  beginning  to  end.  You  got 
across  the  border  on  your  camels,  Dravot  dressed 


The  Man  Who  IVoiild  be  King  137 

as  a  mad  priest  and  you  his  servant.     Do  you  re- 
member that  ?  " 

"I  ain't  mad— yet,  but  I  shall  be  that  way  soon. 
Of  course  I  remember.  Keep  looking  at  me,  or 
maybe  my  words  will  go  all  to  pieces.  Keep 
looking  at  me  in  my  eyes  and  don't  say  anything." 

I  leaned  forward  and  looked  into  his  face  as 
steadily  as  I  could.  He  dropped  one  hand  upon 
the  table  and  I  grasped  it  by  the  wrist.  It  was 
twisted  like  a  bird's  claw,  and  upon  the  back 
was  a  ragged,  red,  diamond-shaped  scar. 

*'No,  don't  look  there.  Look  at  me,''  said 
Carnehan. 

"That  comes  afterward,  but  for  the  Lord's 
sake  don't  distrack  me.  We  left  with  that  cara- 
van, me  and  Dravot  playing  all  sorts  of  antics  to 
amuse  the  people  we  were  with.  Dravot  used 
to  make  us  laugh  in  the  evenings  when  all  the 
people  was  cooking  their  dinners— cooking  their 
dinners,  and  .  .  .  what  did  they  do  then } 
They  lit  little  fires  with  sparks  that  went  into 
Dravot's  beard,  and  we  all  laughed — fit  to  die. 
Little  red  fires  they  was,  going  into  Dravot's  big 
red  beard— so  funny."  His  eyes  left  mine  and 
he  smiled  foolishly. 

''You  went  as  far  as  Jagdallak  with  that 
caravan,"  I  said,  at  a  venture,  '*  after  you  had  lit 
those  fires.  To  Jagdallah,  where  you  turned  off 
to  try  to  get  into  Kafiristan." 


138  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

"No,  we  didn't  neither.  What  are  you  talk- 
ing about  ?  We  turned  off  before  Jagdallak,  be- 
cause we  heard  the  roads  was  good.  But  they 
wasn't  good  enough  for  our  two  camels— mine 
and  Dravot's.  When  we  left  the  caravan,  Dravot 
took  off  all  his  clothes  and  mine  too,  and  said  we 
would  be  heathen,  because  the  Kafirs  didn't 
allow  Mohammedans  to  talk  to  them.  So  we 
dressed  betwixt  and  between,  and  such  a  sight 
as  Daniel  Dravot  I  never  saw  yet  nor  expect  to 
see  again.  He  burned  half  his  beard,  and  slung 
a  sheep-skin  over  his  shoulder,  and  shaved  his 
head  into  patterns.  He  shaved  mine,  too,  and 
made  me  wear  outrageous  things  to  look  like  a 
heathen.  That  was  in  a  most  mountaineous 
country,  and  our  camels  couldn't  go  along  any 
more  because  of  the  mountains.  They  were  tall 
and  black,  and  coming  home  I  saw  them  fight 
like  wild  goats— there  are  lots  of  goats  in  Kafir- 
istan.  And  these  mountains,  they  never  keep 
still,  no  more  than  the  goats.  Always  fighting 
they  are,  and  don't  let  you  sleep  at  night." 

"Take  some  more  whiskey,"  I  said,  very 
slowly,  "  What  did  you  and  Daniel  Dravot  do 
when  the  camels  could  go  no  further  because  of 
the  rough  roads  that  led  into  Kafiristan  .^  " 

"What  did  which  do?  There  was  a  party 
called  Peachey  Taliaferro  Carnehan  that  was  with 
Dravot.     Shall  I  tell  you  about  him  ?     He  died 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  139 

out  there  in  the  cold.  Slap  from  the  bridge  fell 
old  Peachey,  turning  and  twisting  in  the  air  like 
a  penny  whirligig  that  you  can  sell  to  the  Amir. 
— No;  they  was  two  for  three  ha'pence,  those 
whirligigs,  or  I  am  much  mistaken  and  wofui 
sore.  And  then  these  camels  were  no  use,  and 
Peachey  said  to  Dravot — '  For  the  Lord's  sake, 
let's  get  out  of  this  before  our  heads  are  chopped 
off,'  and  with  that  they  killed  the  camels  all 
among  the  mountains,  not  having  anything  in 
particular  to  eat,  but  first  they  took  off  the  boxes 
with  the  guns  and  the  ammunition,  till  two  men 
came  along  driving  four  mules.  Dravot  up  and 
dances  in  front  of  them,  singing, — '  Sell  me  four 
mules.'  Says  the  first  man, — 'If  you  are  rich 
enough  to  buy,  you  are  rich  enough  to  rob ; '  but 
before  ever  he  could  put  his  hand  to  his  knife, 
Dravot  breaks  his  neck  over  his  knee,  and  the 
other  party  runs  away.  So  Carnehan  loaded  the 
mules  with  the  rifles  that  was  taken  off  the 
camels,  and  together  we  starts  forward  into 
those  bitter  cold  mountaineous  parts,  and  never  a 
road  broader  than  the  back  of  your  hand." 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  while  I  asked  him  if 
he  could  remember  the  nature  of  the  country 
through  which  he  had  journeyed. 

'*  I  am  telling  you  as  straight  as  I  can,  but  my 
head  isn't  as  good  as  it  might  be.  They  drove 
nails   through   it  to   make  me  hear  better  how 


I40  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

Dravot  died.  The  country  was  mountaineous 
and  the  mules  were  most  contrary,  and  the  inhab- 
itants was  dispersed  and  solitary.  They  went  up 
and  up,  and  down  and  down,  and  that  other 
party,  Carnehan,  was  imploring  of  Dravot  not  to 
sing  and  whistle  so  loud,  for  fear  of  bringing 
down  the  tremenjus  avalanches.  But  Dravot  says 
that  if  a  King  couldn't  sing  it  wasn't  worth  being 
King,  and  whacked  the  mules  over  the  rump,  and 
never  took  no  heed  for  ten  cold  days.  We  came 
to  a  big  level  valley  all  among  the  mountains,  and 
the  mules  were  near  dead,  so  we  killed  them,  not 
having  anything  in  special  for  them  or  us  to  eat. 
We  sat  upon  the  boxes,  and  played  odd  and  even 
with  the  cartridges  that  was  jolted  out. 

''Then  ten  men  with  bows  and  arrows  ran 
down  that  valley,  chasing  twenty  men  with  bows 
and  arrows,  and  the  row  was  tremenjus.  They 
was  fair  men — fairer  than  you  or  me — with 
yellow  hair  and  remarkable  well  built.  Says 
Dravot,  unpacking  the  guns—'  This  is  the  begin- 
ning of  the  business.  We'll  fight  for  the  ten 
men,'  and  with  that  he  fires  two  rifles  at  the 
twenty  men,  and  drops  one  of  them  at  two 
hundred  yards  from  the  rock  where  we  was  sit- 
ting. The  other  men  began  to  run  but  Carnehan 
and  Dravot  sits  on  the  boxes  picking  them  off  at 
all  ranges,  up  and  down  the  valley.  Then  we 
goes  up  to  the  ten  men  that  had  run  across  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  141 

snow  too,  and  they  fires  a  footy  little  arrow  at 
us.  Dravot  he  shoots  above  their  heads  and 
they  all  falls  down  flat.  Then  he  walks  over 
them  and  kicks  them,  and  then  he  lifts  them  up 
and  shakes  hands  all  round  to  make  them  friendly 
like.  He  calls  them  and  gives  them  the  boxes  to 
carry,  and  waves  his  hand  for  all  the  world  as 
though  he  was  King  already.  They  takes  the 
boxes  and  him  across  the  valley  and  up  the  hill 
into  a  pine  wood  on  the  top,  where  there  was 
half  a  dozen  big  stone  idols.  Dravot  he  goes  to 
the  biggest — a  fellow  they  call  Imbra— and  lays 
a  rifle  and  a  cartridge  at  his  feet,  rubbing  his  nose 
respectful  with  his  own  nose,  patting  him  on  the 
head,  and  saluting  in  front  of  it.  He  turns  round 
to  the  men  and  nods  his  head,  and  says, — *  That's 
all  right.  I'm  in  the  know  too,  and  all  these  old 
jim-jams  are  my  friends.'  Then  he  opens  his 
mouth  and  points  down  it,  and  when  the  first 
man  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'No;'  and  when 
the  second  man  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'No;' 
but  when  one  of  the  old  priests  and  the  boss  of 
the  village  brings  him  food,  he  says — 'Yes;* 
very  haughty,  and  eats  it  slow.  That  was  how 
we  came  to  our  first  village,  without  any  trouble, 
just  as  though  we  had  tumbled  from  the  skies. 
But  we  tumbled  from  one  of  those  damned  rope- 
bridges,  you  see,  and  you  couldn't  expect,  a  man 
to  laugh  much  after  that." 


142  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

"Take  some  more  whiskey  and  go  on,"  I  said. 
"That  was  the  first  village  you  came  into.  How 
did  you  get  to  be  King  ?  " 

"I  wasn't  King,"  said  Carnehan.  "Dravot  he 
was  the  King,  and  a  handsome  man  he  looked 
with  the  gold  crown  on  his  head  and  all.  Him 
and  the  other  party  stayed  in  that  village,  and 
every  morning  Dravot  sat  by  the  side  of  old 
Imbra,  and  the  people  came  and  worshipped. 
That  was  Dravot's  order.  Then  a  lot  of  men 
came  into  the  valley,  and  Carnehan  and  Dravot 
picks  them  off  with  the  rifles  before  they  knew 
where  they  was,  and  runs  down  into  the  valley 
and  up  again  the  other  side,  and  finds  another 
village,  same  as  the  first  one,  and  the  people  all 
falls  down  flat  on  their  faces,  and  Dravot  says, — 
'  Now  what  is  the  trouble  between  you  two  vil- 
lages?' and  the  people  points  to  a  woman,  as 
fair  as  you  or  me,  that  was  carried  off,  and 
Dravot  takes  her  back  to  the  first  village  and 
counts  up  the  dead — eight  there  was.  For  each 
dead  man  Dravot  pours  a  little  milk  on  the 
ground  and  waves  his  arms  like  a  whirligig 
and  'That's  all  right,'  says  he.  Then  he  and 
Carnehan  takes  the  big  boss  of  each  village  by 
the  arm  and  walks  them  down  into  the  valley, 
and  shows  them  how  to  scratch  a  line  with  a 
spear  right  down  the  valley,  and  gives  each  a  sod 
of  turf  from  both  sides  o'  the  line.     Then  all  the 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  143 

people  comes  down  and  shouts  like  the  devil  and 
all,  and  Dravot  says, — '  Go  and  dig  the  land,  and 
be  fruitful  and  multiply,'  which  they  did,  though 
they  didn't  understand.  Then  we  asks  the 
names  of  things  in  their  lingo — bread  and  water 
and  fire  and  idols  and  such,  and  Dravot  leads  the 
priest  of  each  village  up  to  the  idol,  and  says  he 
must  sit  there  and  judge  the  people,  and  if  any- 
thing goes  wrong  he  is  to  be  shot. 

''Next  week  they  was  all  turning  up  the  land 
in  the  valley  as  quiet  as  bees  and  much  prettier, 
and  the  priests  heard  all  the  complaints  and  told 
Dravot  in  dumb  show  what  it  was  about. 
*  That's  just  the  beginning,'  says  Dravot.  '  They 
think  we're  Gods.'  He  and  Carnehan  picks  out 
twenty  good  men  and  shows  them  how  to  click 
off  a  rifle,  and  form  fours,  and  advance  in  line, 
and  they  was  very  pleased  to  do  so,  and  clever 
to  see  the  hang  of  it.  Then  he  takes  out  his  pipe 
and  his  baccy-pouch  and  leaves  one  at  one  village 
and  one  at  the  other,  and  off  we  two  goes  to  see 
what  was  to  be  done  in  the  next  valley.  That 
was  all  rock,  and  there  was  a  little  village  there, 
and  Carnehan  says, — 'Send  'em  to  the  old  valley 
to  plant,'  and  takes  'em  there  and  gives  'em  some 
land  that  wasn't  took  before.  They  were  a  poor 
lot,  and  we  blooded  'em  with  a  kid  before  let- 
ting *em  into  the  new  Kingdom.  That  was  to 
impress  the  people,  and  then  they  settled  down 


144  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

quiet,  and  Carnehan  went  back  to  Dravot  who 
had  got  into  another  valley,  all  snow  and  ice  and 
most  mountaineous.  There  was  no  people  there 
and  the  Army  got  afraid,  so  Dravot  shoots  one  of 
them,  and  goes  on  till  he  finds  some  people  in  a 
village,  and  the  Army  explains  that  unless  the 
people  wants  to  be  killed  they  had  better  not 
shoot  their  little  matchlocks;  for  they  had  match- 
locks. We  makes  friends  with  the  priest  and  I 
stays  there  alone  with  two  of  the  Army,  teaching 
the  men  how  to  drill,  and  a  thundering  big  Chief 
comes  across  the  snow  with  kettle-drums  and 
horns  twanging,  because  he  heard  there  was  a 
new  God  kicking  about.  Carnehan  sights  for 
the  brown  of  the  men  half  a  mile  across  the 
snow  and  wings  one  of  them.  Then  he  sends  a 
message  to  the  Chief  that,  unless  he  wished  to  be 
killed,  he  must  come  and  shake  hands  with  me 
and  leave  his  arms  behind.  The  chief  comes 
alone  first,  and  Carnehan  shakes  hands  with  him 
and  whirls  his  arms  about,  same  as  Dravot  used, 
and  very  much  surprised  that  Chief  was,  and 
strokes  my  eyebrows.  Then  Carnehan  goes 
alone  to  the  Chief,  and  asks  him  in  dumb  show 
if  he  had  an  enemy  he  hated.  '  I  have,'  says  the 
Chief.  So  Carnehan  weeds  out  the  pick  of  his 
men,  and  sets  the  two  of  the  Army  to  show 
them  drill  and  at  the  end  of  two  weeks  the  men 
can  manoeuvre  about  as  well  as  Volunteers.     So 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  145 

he  marches  with  the  Chief  to  a  great  big  plain  on 
the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  the  Chiefs  men 
rushes  into  a  village  and  takes  it;  we  three 
Martinis  firing  into  the  brown  of  the  enemy.  So 
we  took  that  village  too,  and  I  gives  the  Chief  a 
rag  from  my  coat  and  says,  *  Occupy  till  I  come: ' 
which  was  scriptural.  By  way  of  a  reminder, 
when  me  and  the  Army  was  eighteen  hundred 
yards  away,  I  drops  a  bullet  near  him  standing 
on  the  snow,  and  all  the  people  falls  flat  on  their 
faces.  Then  I  sends  a  letter  to  Dravot,  wherever 
he  be  by  land  or  by  sea." 

At  the  risk  of  throwing  the  creature  out  of 
train  I  interrupted, — "How  could  you  write  a 
letter  up  yonder?" 

*'The  letter ?— Oh !— The  letter!  Keep  look- 
ing at  me  between  the  eyes,  please.  It  was  a 
string-talk  letter,  that  we'd  learned  the  way  of  it 
from  a  blind  beggar  in  the  Punjab." 

I  remember  that  there  had  once  come  to  the 
office  a  blind  man  with  a  knotted  twig  and  a 
piece  of  string  which  he  wound  round  the  twig 
according  to  some  cypher  of  his  own.  He  could, 
after  the  lapse  of  days  or  hours,  repeat  the  sen- 
tence which  he  had  reeled  up.  He  had  reduced 
the  alphabet  to  eleven  primitive  sounds;  and  tried 
to  teach  me  his  method,  but  failed. 

"  I  sent  that  letter  to  Dravot,"  said  Carnehan; 
"and  told  him  to  come  back  because  this  King- 


146  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

dom  was  growing  too  big  for  me  to  handle,  and 
then  I  struck  for  the  first  valley,  to  see  how  the 
priests  were  working.  They  called  the  village 
we  took  along  with  the  Chief,  Bashkai,  and  the 
first  village  we  took,  Er-Heb.  The  priests  at  Er- 
Heb  was  doing  all  right,  but  they  had  a  lot  of 
pending  cases  about  land  to  show  me,  and  some 
men  from  another  village  had  been  firing  arrows 
at  night.  I  went  out  and  looked  for  that  village 
and  fired  four  rounds  at  it  from  a  thousand  yards. 
That  used  all  the  cartridges  I  cared  to  spend, 
and  I  waited  for  Dravot,  who  had  been  away 
two  or  three  months,  and  I  kept  my  people 
quiet. 

'•'One  morning  I  heard  the  devil's  own  noise 
of  drums  and  horns,  and  Dan  Dravot  marches 
down  the  hill  with  his  Army  and  a  tail  of  hun- 
dreds of  men,  and,  which  was  the  most  amazing 
— a  great  gold  crown  on  his  head.  '  My  Gord, 
Carnehan,'  says  Daniel,  'this  is  a  tremenjus 
business,  and  we've  got  the  whole  country  as 
far  as  it's  worth  having.  I  am  the  son  of 
Alexander  by  Queen  Semiramis,  and  you're  my 
younger  brother  and  a  God  too!  It's  the  biggest 
thing  we've  ever  seen.  I've  been  marching  and 
fighting  for  six  weeks  with  the  Army,  and  every 
footy  little  villap^e  for  fifty  miles  has  come  in 
rejoiceful;  and  more  than  that,  I've  got  the  key 
of  the  whole  show,  as  you'll  see,  and  I've  got  a 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  147 

crown  for  you!  I  told  'em  to  make  two  of  em 
at  a  place  called  Shu,  where  the  gold  lies  in  the 
rock  like  suet  in  mutton.  Gold  I've  seen,  and 
turquoise  I've  kicked  out  of  the  cliffs,  and  there's 
garnets  in  the  sands  of  the  river,  and  here's  a 
chunk  of  amber  that  a  man  brought  me.  Call  up 
all  the  priests  and,  here,  take  your  crown.' 

"One  of  the  men  opens  a  black  hair  bag  and  I 
slips  the  crown  on.  It  was  too  small  and  too 
heavy,  but  I  wore  it  for  the  glory.  Hammered 
gold  it  was — five  pound  weight,  like  a  hoop  of  a 
barrel. 

'''Peachey,'  says  Dravot,  'we  don't  want  to 
fight  no  more.  The  Graffs  the  trick  so  help  me ! ' 
and  he  brings  forward  that  same  Ghief  that  I  left 
at  Bashkai— Billy  Fish  we  called  him  afterward, 
because  he  was  so  like  Billy  Fish  that  drove  the 
big  tank-engine  at  Mach  on  the  Bolan  in  the  old 
days.  '  Shake  hands  with  him,'  says  Dravot,  and 
I  shook  hands  and  nearly  dropped,  for  Billy  Fish 
gave  me  the  Grip.  1  said  nothing,  but  tried  him 
with  the  Fellow  Craft  Grip.  He  answers,  all 
right,  and  I  tried  the  Master's  Grip,  but  that  was 
a  slip.  'A  Fellow  Craft  he  is!'  I  says  to  Dan. 
'Does  he  know  the  word?'  'He  does,'  says 
Dan,  'and  all  the  priests  know.  It's  a  miracle! 
The  Chiefs  and  the  priests  can  work  a  Fellow 
Craft  Lodge  in  a  way  thaf  s  very  like  ours,  and 
they've  cut  the  marks  on  the  rocks,  but  they 


148  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

don't  know  the  Third  Degree,  and  they've  come 
to  find  out.  It's  Gord's  Truth.  I've  known  these 
long  years  that  the  Afghans  knew  up  to  the 
Fellow  Craft  Degree,  but  this  is  a  miracle.  A 
God  and  a  Grand-Master  of  the  Craft  am  I,  and  a 
Lodge  in  the  Third  Degree  I  will  open,  and  we'll 
raise  the  head  priests  and  the  Chiefs  of  the  vil- 
lages.' 

**  Mt's  against  all  the  law,'  I  says,  'holding  a 
Lodge  without  warrant  from  any  one;  and  we 
never  held  office  in  any  Lodge.' 

**Mt's  a  master-stroke  of  policy,'  says  Dravot. 
*  It  means  running  the  country  as  easy  as  a  four- 
wheeled  bogy  on  a  down  grade.  We  can't  stop 
to  inquire  now,  or  they'll  turn  against  us.  I've 
forty  Chiefs  at  my  heel,  and  passed  and  raised 
according  to  their  merit  they  shall  be.  Billet 
these  men  on  the  villages  and  see  that  we  run  up 
a  Lodge  of  some  kind.  The  temple  of  Imbra 
will  do  for  the  Lodge-room.  The  women  must 
make  aprons  as  you  show  them.  I'll  hold  a 
levee  of  Chiefs  to-night  and  Lodge  to-morrow.' 

*'  I  was  fair  run  off  my  legs,  but  I  wasn't  such 
a  fool  as  not  to  see  what  a  pull  this  Craft  busi- 
ness gave  us.  I  showed  the  priests'  families 
how  to  make  aprons  of  the  degrees,  but  for 
Dravot's  apron  the  blue  border  and  marks  was 
made  of  turquoise  lumps  on  white  hide,  not 
cloth.     We  took  a  great  square  stone  in  the  tern- 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  149 

pie  for  the  Master's  chair,  and  little  stones  for 
the  officers'  chairs,  and  painted  the  black  pave- 
ment with  white  squares,  and  did  what  we  could 
to  make  things  regular. 

*'At  the  levee  which  was  held  that  night  on 
the  hillside  with  big  bonfires,  Dravot  gives  out 
that  him  and  me  were  Gods  and  sons  of  Alex- 
ander, and  Past  Grand-Masters  in  the  Craft,  and 
was  come  to  make  Kafiristan  a  country  where 
every  man  should  eat  in  peace  and  drink  in  quiet, 
and  specially  obey  us.  Then  the  Chiefs  come 
round  to  sh^ke  hands,  and  they  was  so  hairy 
and  white  and  fair  it  was  just  shaking  hands  with 
old  friends.  We  gave  them  names  according  as 
they  was  like  men  we  had  known  in  India — Billy 
Fish,  Holly  Dilworth,  Pikky  Kergan  that  was 
Bazar-master  when  I  was  at  Mhow,  and  so  on 
and  so  on. 

**  The  most  amazing  miracle  was  at  Lodge  next 
night.  One  of  the  old  priests  was  watching  us 
continuous,  and  I  felt  uneasy,  for  I  knew  we'd 
have  to  fudge  the  Ritual,  and  1  didn't  know  what 
the  men  knew.  The  old  priest  was  a  stranger 
come  in  from  beyond  the  village  of  Bashkai. 
The  minute  Dravot  puts  on  the  Master's  apron 
that  the  girls  had  made  for  him,  the  priest  fetches 
a  whoop  and  a  howl,  and  tries  to  overturn  the 
stone  that  Dravot  was  sitting  on.  'It's  all  up 
now,'  I  says.     '  That  comes  of  meddling  with  the 


150  The  Man  Who  Would  he  King 

Craft  without  warrant!'  Dravot  never  winked 
an  eye,  not  when  ten  priests  took  and  tilted  over 
the  Grand-Master's  chair— which  was  to  say  the 
stone  of  Imbra.  The  priest  begins  rubbing  the 
bottom  end  of  it  to  clear  away  the  black  dirt, 
and  presently  he  shows  all  the  other  priests  the 
Master's  Mark,  same  as  was  on  Dravot's  apron, 
cut  into  the  stone.  Not  even  the  priests  of  the 
temple  of  Imbra  knew  it  was  there.  The  old 
chap  falls  flat  on  his  face  at  Dravot's  feet  and 
kisses  'em.  *  Luck  again,'  says  Dravot,  across  the 
Lodge  to  me,  'they  say  it's  the  missing  Mark 
that  no  one  could  understand  the  why  of.  We're 
more  than  safe  now.'  Then  he  bangs  the  butt 
of  his  gun  for  a  gavel  and  says: — *  By  virtue  of 
the  authority  vested  in  me  by  my  own  right  hand 
and  the  help  of  Peachey,  I  declare  myself  Grand- 
Master  of  all  Freemasonry  in  Kafiristan  in  this  the 
Mother  Lodge  o'  the  country,  and  King  of  Kafir- 
istan equally  with  Peachey! '  At  that  he  puts  on 
his  crown  and  I  puts  on  mine— I  was  doing  Senior 
Warden— and  we  opens  the  Lodge  in  most  ample 
form.  It  was  a  amazing  miracle!  The  priests 
moved  in  Lodge  through  the  first  two  degrees 
almost  without  telling,  as  if  the  memory  was 
coming  back  to  them.  After  that,  Peachey  and 
Dravot  raised  such  as  was  worthy— high  priests 
and  Chiefs  of  far-off  villages.  Billy  Fish  was  the 
first,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  scared  the  soul  out  of 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  151 

him.  It  was  not  in  any  way  according  to  Ritual, 
but  it  served  our  turn.  We  didn't  raise  more 
than  ten  of  the  biggest  men  because  we  didn't 
want  to  make  the  Degree  common.  And  they 
was  clamoring  to  be  raised. 

'*  Mn  another  six  months,'  says  Dravot,  'we'll 
hold  another  Communication  and  see  how  you 
are  working.'  Then  he  asks  them  about  their 
villages,  and  learns  that  they  was  fighting  one 
against  the  other  and  were  fair  sick  and  tired  of 
it.  And  when  they  wasn't  doing  that  they  was 
fighting  with  the  Mohammedans.  '  You  can  fight 
those  when  they  come  into  our  country,'  says 
Dravot.  '  Tell  off  every  tenth  man  of  your  tribes 
for  a  Frontier  guard,  and  send  two  hundred  at  a 
time  to  this  valley  to  be  drilled.  Nobody  is  going 
to  be  shot  or  speared  any  more  so  long  as  he  does 
well,  and  I  know  that  you  won't  cheat  me  be- 
cause you're  white  people— sons  of  Alexander — 
and  not  like  common,  black  Mohammedans.  You 
are  7ny  people  and  by  God,'  says  he,  running  off 
into  English  at  the  end—'  I'll  make  a  damned  fine 
Nation  of  you,  or  I'll  die  in  the  making!' 

"  I  can't  tell  all  we  did  for  the  next  six  months 
because  Dravot  did  a  lot  1  couldn't  see  the  hang 
of,  and  he  learned  their  Hngo  in  a  way  I  never 
could.  My  work  was  to  help  the  people  plough, 
and  now  and  again  go  out  with  some  of  the 
Army  and  see  what  the  other  villages  were  doing, 


1 52  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

and  make  *em  throw  rope-bridges  across  the  ra- 
vines which  cut  up  the  country  horrid.  Dravot 
was  very  kind  to  me,  but  when  he  walked  up 
and  down  in  the  pine  wood  pulling  that  bloody 
red  beard  of  his  with  both  fists  I  knew  he  was 
thinking  plans  I  could  not  advise  him  about,  and 
I  just  waited  for  orders. 

**  But  Dravot  never  showed  me  disrespect  be- 
fore the  people.  They  were  afraid  of  me  and  the 
Army,  but  they  loved  Dan.  He  was  the  best  of 
friends  with  the  priests  and  the  Chiefs;  but  any 
one  could  come  across  the  hills  with  a  complaint 
and  Dravot  would  hear  him  out  fair,  and  call 
four  priests  together  and  say  what  was  to  be 
done.  He  used  to  call  in  Billy  Fish  from  Bashkai, 
and  Pikky  Kergan  from  Shu,  and  an  old  Chief 
we  called  Kafuzelum — it  was  like  enough  to  his 
real  name — and  hold  councils  with  'em  when 
there  was  any  fighting  to  be  done  in  small  vil- 
lages. That  was  his  Council  of  War,  and  the 
four  priests  of  Bashkai,  Shu,  Khawak,  and  Ma- 
dora  was  his  Privy  Council.  Between  the  lot  of 
'em  they  sent  me,  with  forty  men  and  twenty 
rifles,  and  sixty  men  carrying  turquoises,  into  the 
Ghorband  country  to  buy  those  hand-made  Mar- 
tini rifles,  that  come  out  of  the  Amir's  workshops 
at  Kabul,  from  one  of  the  Amir's  Herati  regi- 
ments that  would  have  sold  the  very  teeth  out  of 
their  mouths  for  turquoises. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 53 

*M  stayed  in  Ghorband  a  month,  and  gave  the 
Governor  there  the  pick  of  my  baskets  for  hush- 
money,  and  bribed  the  Colonel  of  the  regiment 
some  more,  and,  between  the  two  and  the  tribes- 
people,  we  got  more  than  a  hundred  hand-made 
Martinis,  a  hundred  good  Kohat  Jezaiis  that'll 
throw  to  six  hundred  yards,  and  forty  man-loads 
of  very  bad  ammunition  for  the  rifles.  I  came 
back  with  what  I  had,  and  distributed  'em  among 
the  men  that  the  Chiefs  sent  to  me  to  drill. 
Dravot  was  too  busy  to  attend  to  those  things, 
but  the  old  Army  that  we  first  made  helped  me, 
and  we  turned  out  five  hundred  men  that  could 
drill,  and  two  hundred  that  knew  how  to  hold 
arms  pretty  straight.  Even  those  cork-screwed, 
hand-made  guns  was  a  miracle  to  them.  Dravot 
talked  big  about  powder-shops  and  factories, 
walking  up  and  down  in  the  pine  wood  when 
the  winter  was  coming  on. 

"'I  won't  make  a  Nation,'  says  he.  'I'll  make 
an  Empire!  These  men  aren't  niggers;  they're 
English!  Look  at  their  eyes — look  at  their 
mouths.  Look  at  the  way  they  stand  up.  They 
sit  on  chairs  in  their  own  houses.  They're  the 
Lost  Tribes,  or  something  like  it,  and  they've 
grown  to  be  English.  I'll  take  a  census  in  the 
spring  if  the  priests  don't  get  frightened.  There 
must  be  a  fair  two  million  of  'em  in  these  hills. 
The  villages  are  full  o'  little  children.     Two  mil- 


1^4  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

lion  people — two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
fighting  men— and  all  English!  They  only  want 
the  rifles  and  a  little  drilling.  Two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  men,  ready  to  cut  in  on  Russia's 
right  flank  when  she  tries  for  India!  Peachey, 
man,'  he  says,  chewing  his  beard  in  great  hunks, 
*we  shall  be  Emperors — Emperors  of  the  Earth! 
Rajah  Brooke  will  be  a  suckling  to  us.  I'll  treat 
with  the  Viceroy  on  equal  terms.  I'll  ask  him  to 
send  me  twelve  picked  English — twelve  that  I 
know  of — to  help  us  govern  a  bit.  There's 
Mackray,  Sergeant-pensioner  at  Segowli — many's 
the  good  dinner  he's  given  me,  and  his  wife  a 
pair  of  trousers.  There's  Donkin,  the  Warder  of 
Tounghoo  Jail;  there's  hundreds  that  I  could  lay 
my  hand  on  if  I  was  in  India.  The  Viceroy  shall 
do  it  for  me.  I'll  send  a  man  through  in  the 
spring  for  those  men,  and  I'll  write  for  a  dispen- 
sation from  the  Grand  Lodge  for  what  I've  done 
as  Grand-Master.  That— and  all  the  Sniders 
that'll  be  thrown  out  when  the  native  troops  in 
India  take  up  the  Martini.  They'll  be  worn 
smooth,  but  they'll  do  for  fighting  in  these  hills. 
Twelve  English,  a  hundred  thousand  Sniders  run 
through  the  Amir's  country  in  driblets — I'd  be 
content  with  twenty  thousand  in  one  year— and 
we'd  be  an  Empire.  When  everything  was 
shipshape,  I'd  hand  over  the  crown — this  crown 
I'm  wearing   now — to   Queen  Victoria    on  my 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  155 

knees,  and  she'd  say:  ''Rise  up,  Sir  Daniel 
Dravot."  OIi,  it's  big!  It's  big,  I  tell  you!  But 
there's  so  much  to  be  done  in  every  place — 
Bashkai,  Khawak,  Shu,  and  everywhere  else.' 

"'What  is  it?'  I  says.  'There  are  no  more 
men  coming  in  to  be  drilled  this  autumn.  Look 
at  those  fat,  black  clouds.  They're  bringing  the 
snow.* 

"  'It  isn't  that,'  says  Daniel,  putting  his  hand 
very  hard  on  my  shoulder;  'and  I  don't  wish  to 
say  anything  that's  against  you,  for  no  other  liv- 
ing man  would  have  followed  me  and  made  me 
what  I  am  as  you  have  done.  You're  a  first-class 
Commander-in-Chief,  and  the  people  know  you; 
but — it's  a  big  country,  and  somehow  you  can't 
help  me,  Peachey,  in  the  way  I  want  to  be 
helped.' 

"'Go  to  your  blasted  priests,  then!'  I  said, 
and  I  was  sorry  when  I  made  that  remark,  but  it 
did  hurt  me  sore  to  find  Daniel  talking  so  supe- 
rior when  I'd  drilled  all  the  men,  and  done  all  he 
told  me. 

"'Don't  let's  quarrel,  Peachey,'  says  Daniel, 
without  cursing.  '  You're  a  King  too,  and  the 
half  of  this  Kingdom  is  yours;  but  can't  you  see, 
Peachey,  we  want  cleverer  men  than  us  now — 
three  or  four  of  'em,  that  we  can  scatter  about 
for  our  Deputies.  It's  a  hugeous  great  State,  and 
I  can't  always  tell  the  right  thing  to  do,  and  I 


1 56  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

haven't  time  for  all  I  want  to  do,  and  here's  the 
winter  coming  on  and  all.'  He  put  half  his  beard 
into  his  mouth,  and  it  was  as  red  as  the  gold  of 
his  crown. 

"  *  I'm  sorry,  Daniel,'  says  I.  'I've  done  all  I 
could.  I've  drilled  the  men  and  shown  the 
people  how  to  stack  their  oats  better;  and  I've 
brought  in  those  tinware  rifles  from  Ghorband — 
but  I  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I  take  it 
Kings  always  feel  oppressed  that  way.' 

"'There's  another  thing  too,'  says  Dravot, 
walking  up  and  down.  '  The  winter's  coming 
and  these  people  won't  be  giving  much  trouble, 
and  if  they  do  we  can't  move  about.  I  want  a 
wife.' 

"'For  Gord's  sake  leave  the  women  alone!* 
I  says.  *  We've  both  got  all  the  work  we  can, 
though  I  am  a  fool.  Remember  the  Contrack, 
and  keep  clear  o'  women.' 

"'The  Contrack  only  lasted  till  such  time  as 
we  was  Kings;  and  Kings  we  have  been  these 
months  past,'  says  Dravot,  weighing  his  crown 
in  his  hand.  '  You  go  get  a  wife  too,  Peachey— 
a  nice,  strappin',  plump  girl  that'll  keep  you 
warm  in  the  winter.  They're  prettier  than 
English  girls,  and  we  can  take  the  pick  of  'em. 
Boil  'em  once  or  twice  in  hot  water,  and  they'll 
come  as  fair  as  chicken  and  ham.' 

"  'Don't  tempt  me! '  1  says.     'I  will  not  have 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 57 

any  dealings  with  a  woman  not  till  we  are  a 
dam*  side  more  settled  than  we  are  now.  I've 
been  doing  the  work  0'  two  men,  and  you've 
been  doing  the  work  o'  three.  Let's  lie  off  a  bit, 
and  see  if  we  can  get  some  better  tobacco  from 
Afghan  country  and  run  in  some  good  liquor; 
but  no  women.* 

**  *  Who's  talking  o'  women  ? '  says  Dravot.  '  I 
said  wife — a  Queen  to  breed  a  King's  son  for  the 
King.  A  Queen  out  of  the  strongest  tribe,  that'll 
make  them  your  blood-brothers,  and  that'll  lie  by 
your  side  and  tell  you  all  the  people  thinks  about 
you  and  their  own  affairs.  That's  what  I  want.' 
"  '  Do  you  remember  that  Bengali  woman  I 
kept  at  Mogul  Serai  when  I  was  a  plate-layer.?' 
says  I.  '  A  fat  lot  o'  good  she  was  to  me.  She 
taught  me  the  lingo  and  one  or  two  other  things; 
but  what  happened  ?  She  ran  away  with  the 
Station  Master's  servant  and  half  my  month's 
pay.  Then  she  turned  up  at  Dadur  Junction  in 
tow  of  a  half-caste,  and  had  the  impidence  to 
say  I  was  her  husband — all  among  the  drivers  in 
the  running-shed! ' 

''*  We've  done  with  that,'  says  Dravot. 
*  These  women  are  whiter  than  you  or  me,  and 
a  Queen  I  will  have  for  the  winter  months.' 

"  *  For  the  last  time  o'  asking,  Dan,  do  not/  I 
says.  *  It'll  only  bring  us  harm.  The  Bible  says 
that  Kings    ain't    to  waste    their    strength    on 


1 58  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

women,  'specially  when  they've  got  a  new  raw 
Kingdom  to  work  over.' 

**  '  For  the  last  time  of  answering  I  will,'  said 
Dravot,  and  he  went  away  through  the  pine-trees 
looking  like  a  big  red  devil.  The  low  sun  hit 
his  crown  and  beard  on  one  side  and  the  two 
blazed  like  hot  coals. 

"  But  getting  a  wife  was  not  as  easy  as  Dan 
thought.  He  put  it  before  the  Council,  and  there 
was  no  answer  till  Billy  Fish  said  that  he'd  better 
ask  the  girls.  Dravot  damned  them  all  round. 
'What's  wrong  with  me.^'  he  shouts,  standing 
by  the  idol  Imbra.  *  Am  I  a  dog  or  am  I  not 
enough  of  a  man  for  your  wenches  }  Haven't  I 
put  the  shadow  of  my  hand  over  this  country  ? 
Who  stopped  the  last  Afghan  raid .? '  It  was  me 
really,  but  Dravot  was  too  angry  to  remember. 
'Who  brought  your  guns.?  Who  repaired  the 
bridges  ?  Who's  the  Grand-Master  of  the  sign 
cut  in  the  stone?'  and  he  thumped  his  hand  on 
the  block  that  he  used  to  sit  on  in  Lodge,  and  at 
Council,  which  opened  like  Lodge  always.  Billy 
Fish  said  nothing  and  no  more  did  the  others. 
'Keep  your  hair  on,  Dan,'  said  I;  'and  ask  the 
girls.  That's  how  it's  done  at  Home,  and  these 
people  are  quite  English.' 

"'The  marriage  of  the  King  is  a  matter  of 
State,'  says  Dan,  in  a  white-hot  rage,  for  he 
could  feel,  I  hope,  that  he  was  going  against  his 


The  Man  Who  Would  he  King  1 59 

better  mind.  He  walked  out  of  the  Council- 
room,  and  the  others  sat  still,  looking  at  the 
ground. 

*'  'Billy  Fish,'  says  I  to  the  Chief  of  Bashkai, 
*  what's  the  difficulty  here .?  A  straight  answer 
to  a  true  friend.'  'You  know,'  says  Billy  Fish. 
'  How  should  a  man  tell  you  who  know  every- 
thing }  How  can  daughters  of  men  marry  Gods 
or  Devils.?    It's  not  proper.' 

"I  remembered  something  like  that  in  the 
Bible;  but  if,  after  seeing  us  as  long  as  they. had, 
they  still  believed  we  were  Gods,  it  wasn't  for 
me  to  undeceive  them. 

'"A  God  can  do  anything,' says  I.  'If  the 
King  is  fond  of  a  girl  he'll  not  let  her  die.' 
'She'll  have  to,'  said  Billy  Fish.  'There  are  all 
sorts  of  Gods  and  Devils  in  these  mountains,  and 
now  and  again  a  girl  marries  one  of  them  and 
isn't  seen  any  more.  Besides,  you  two  know 
the  Mark  cut  in  the  stone.  Only  the  Gods  know 
that.  We  thought  you  were  men  till  you 
showed  the  sign  of  the  Master.' 

"I  wished  then  that  we  had  explained  about 
the  loss  of  the  genuine  secrets  of  a  Master-Mason 
at  the  first  go-off;  but  I  said  nothing.  All  that 
night  there  was  a  blowing  of  horns  in  a  little 
dark  temple  half-way  down  the  hill,  and  I  heard 
a  girl  crying  fit  to  die.  One  of  the  priests  told  us 
that  she  was  being  preoared  to  marry  the  King. 


i6o  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

"  M'll  have  no  nonsense  of  that  kind,'  says 
Dan.  '  I  don't  want  to  interfere  with  your  cus- 
toms, but  I'll  take  my  own  wife.'  '  The  girl's  a 
little  bit  afraid,'  says  the  priest.  'She  thinks 
she's  going  to  die,  and  they  are  a-heartening  of 
her  up  down  in  the  temple.' 

'' '  Hearten  her  very  tender,  then,'  says  Dravot, 
'  or  I'll  hearten  you  with  the  butt  of  a  gun  so 
that  you'll  never  want  to  be  heartened  again.' 
He  licked  his  lips,  did  Dan,  and  stayed  up  walk- 
ing about  more  than  half  the  night,  thinking  of 
the  wife  that  he  was  going  to  get  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  wasn't  any  means  comfortable,  for  I 
knew  that  dealings  with  a  woman  in  foreign 
parts,  though  you  was  a  crowned  King  twenty 
times  over,  could  not  but  be  risky.  1  got  up 
very  early  in  the  morning  while  Dravot  was 
asleep,  and  I  saw  the  priests  talking  together  in 
whispers,  and  the  Chiefs  talking  together  too, 
and  they  looked  at  me  out  of  the  corners  of  their 
eyes. 

'''What  is  up.  Fish?'  I  says  to  the  Bashkai 
man,  who  was  wrapped  up  in  his  furs  and  look- 
ing splendid  to  behold. 

"  '  I  can't  rightly  say,'  says  he;  '  but  if  you  can 
induce  the  King  to  drop  all  this  nonsense  about 
marriage,  you'll  be  doing  him  and  me  and  your- 
self a  great  service.' 

'"That  1  do  believe,'  says  I.     *  But  sure,  you 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  i6i 

know,  Billy,  as  well  as  me,  having  fought  against 
and  for  us,  that  the  King  and  me  are  nothing 
more  than  two  of  the  finest  men  that  God  Al- 
mighty ever  made.  Nothing  more,  1  do  assure 
you.' 

***That  may  be,'  says  Billy  Fish,  'and  yet  I 
should  be  sorry  if  it  was.'  He  sinks  his  head 
upon  his  great  fur  cloak  for  a  minute  and  thinks. 
'King,'  says  he,  *be  you  man  or  God  or  Devil, 
I'll  stick  by  you  to-day.  I  have  twenty  of  my 
men  with  me,  and  they  will  follow  me.  We  11 
go  to  Bashkai  until  the  storm  blows  over.' 

"A  little  snow  had  fallen  in  the  night,  and 
everything  was  white  except  the  greasy  fat 
clouds  that  blew  down  and  down  from  the  north. 
Dravot  came  out  with  his  crown  on  his  head, 
swinging  his  arms  and  stamping  his  feet,  and 
looking  more  pleased  than  Punch. 

'* '  For  the  last  time,  drop  it,  Dan,'  says  I,  in  a 
whisper.  *  Billy  Fish  here  says  that  there  will  be 
a  row.' 

"'A  row  among  my  people!'  says  Dravot. 
'Not  much.  Peachey,  you're  a  fool  not  to  get  a 
wife  too.  Where's  the  girl  ? '  says  he,  with  a 
voice  as  loud  as  the  braying  of  a  jackass.  '  Call 
up  all  the  Chiefs  and  priests,  and  let  the  Emperor 
see  if  his  wife  suits  him.' 

"There  was  no  need  to  call  anyone.  They 
were  all  there  leaning  on  their  guns  and  spears 


1 62  The  Man  Who  IVould  be  King 

round  the  clearing  in  tlie  centre  of  the  pine  wood. 
A  deputation  of  priests  went  down  to  the  Httle 
temple  to  bring  up  the  girl,  and  the  horns  blew 
up  fit  to  v/ake  the  dead.  Billy  Fish  saunters 
round  and  gets  as  close  to  Daniel  as  he  could, 
and  behind  him  stood  his  twenty  men  with 
matchlocks.  Not  a  man  of  them  under  six  feet. 
I  was  next  to  Dravot,  and  behind  me  was  twenty 
men  of  the  regular  Army.  Up  comes  the  girl, 
and  a  strapping  wench  she  was,  covered  with 
silver  and  turquoises  but  white  as  death,  and 
looking  back  every  minute  at  the  priests. 

"*  She'll  do,'  said  Dan,  looking  her  over. 
'What's  to  be  afraid  of,  lass.?  Come  and  kiss 
me.'  He  puts  his  arm  round  her.  She  shuts  her 
eyes,  gives  a  bit  of  a  squeak,  and  down  goes  her 
face  in  the  side  of  Dan's  flaming  red  beard. 

"  'The  slut's  bitten  me!'  says  he,  clapping  his 
hand  to  his  neck,  and,  sure  enough,  his  hand  was 
red  with  blood.  Billy  Fish  and  two  of  his  match- 
lock-men catches  hold  of  Dan  by  the  shoulders 
and  drags  him  into  the  Bashkai  lot,  while  the 
priests  howls  in  their  lingo, — '  Neither  God  nor 
Devil  but  a  man! '  1  was  all  taken  aback,  for  a 
priest  cut  at  me  in  front,  and  the  Army  behind 
began  firing  into  the  Bashkai  men. 

'"God  A-mighty!'  says  Dan.  'What  is  the 
meaning  o'  this .?' 

"  '  Come  back!    Come  away ! '  says  Billy  Fish. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 63 

'  Ruin  and  Mutiny  is  the  matter.  We'll  break  for 
Bashkai  if  we  can.' 

*M  tried  to  give  some  sort  of  orders  to  my 
men — the  men  o'  the  regular  Army — but  it  was 
no  use,  so  I  fired  into  the  brown  of  'em  with  an 
English  Martini  and  drilled  three  beggars  in  a 
line.  The  valley  was  full  of  shouting,  howling 
creatures,  and  every  soul  was  shrieking,  '  Not  a 
God  nor  a  Devil  but  only  a  man! '  The  Bashkai 
troops  stuck  to  Billy  Fish  all  they  were  worth, 
but  their  matchlocks  wasn't  half  as  good  as  the 
Kabul  breech-loaders,  and  four  of  them  dropped. 
Dan  was  bellowing  like  a  bull,  for  he  was  very 
wrathy;  and  Billy  Fish  had  a  hard  job  to  prevent 
him  running  out  at  the  crowd. 

'"We  can't  stand,'  says  Billy  Fish.  'Make  a 
run  for  it  down  the  valley!  The  whole  place  is 
against  us.'  The  matchlock-men  ran,  and  we 
went  down  the  valley  in  spite  of  Dravot's  prot- 
estations. He  was  swearing  horribly  and  cry- 
ing out  that  he  was  a  King.  The  priests  rolled 
great  stones  on  us,  and  the  regular  Army  fired 
hard,  and  there  wasn't  more  than  six  men,  not 
counting  Dan,  Billy  Fish,  and  Me,  that  came  down 
to  the  bottom  of  the  valley  alive. 

''Then  they  stopped  firing  and  the  horns  in 
the  temple  blew  again.  '  Come  away— for  Gord's 
sake  come  away!'  says  Billy  Fish.  'They'll 
send  runners  out  to  all  the  villages  before  ever 


164  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

we  get  to  Bashkai.  I  can  protect  you  there,  but 
I  can't  do  anything  now.' 

''  My  own  notion  is  that  Dan  began  to  go  mad 
in  his  head  from  that  hour.  He  stared  up  and 
down  like  a  stuck  pig.  Then  he  was  all  for 
walking  back  alone  and  killing  the  priests  with 
his  bare  hands;  which  he  could  have  done.  'An 
Emperor  am  I,'  says  Daniel,  *  and  next  year  1  shall 
be  a  Knight  of  the  Queen.' 

"'All  right,  Dan,'  says  I;  'but  come  along 
now  while  there's  time.' 

"'It's  your  fault,' says  he,  'for  not  looking 
after  your  Army  better.  There  was  mutiny  in 
the  midst,  and  you  didn't  know — you  damned 
engine-driving,  plate-laying,  missionary's-pass- 
hunting  hound! '  He  sat  upon  a  rock  and  called 
me  every  foul  name  he  could  lay  tongue  to.  I 
was  too  heart-sick  to  care,  though  it  was  all  his 
foolishness  that  brought  the  smash. 

"  'I'm  sorry,  Dan,'  says  I,  'but  there's  no  ac- 
counting for  natives.  This  business  is  our  Fifty- 
Seven.  Maybe  we'll  make  something  out  of  it 
yet,  when  we've  got  to  Bashkai.' 

"  '  Let's  get  to  Bashkai,  then,'  says  Dan,  'and, 
by  God,  when  I  come  back  here  again  I'll  sweep 
the  valley  so  there  isn't  a  bug  in  a  blanket  left! ' 

"We  walked  all  that  day,  and  all  that  night 
Dan  was  stumping  up  and  down  on  the  snow, 
chewing  his  beard  and  muttering  to  himself. 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  16^ 

**  'There's  no  hope  o'  getting  clear,'  said  Billy- 
Fish.  '  The  priests  will  have  sent  runners  to  the 
villages  to  say  that  you  are  only  men.  Why 
didn't  you  stick  on  as  Gods  till  things  was  more 
settled?  I'm  a  dead  man,'  says  Billy  Fish,  and 
he  throws  himself  down  on  the  snow  and  begins 
to  pray  to  his  Gods. 

"Next  morning  we  was  in  a  cruel  bad  country 
— all  up  and  down,  no  level  ground  at  all,  and  no 
food  either.  The  six  Bashkai  men  looked  at 
Billy  Fish  hungry-wise  as  if  they  wanted  to  ask 
something,  but  they  said  never  a  word.  At 
noon  we  came  to  the  top  of  a  flat  mountain  all 
covered  with  snow,  and  when  we  climbed  up 
into  it,  behold,  there  was  an  Army  in  position 
waiting  in  the  middle! 

**'The  runners  have  been  very  quick,'  says 
Billy  Fish,  with  a  little  bit  of  a  laugh.  *  They  are 
waiting  for  us.' 

**  Three  or  four  men  began  to  fire  from  the 
enemy's  side,  and  a  chance  shot  took  Daniel  in 
the  calf  of  the  leg.  That  brought  him  to  his 
senses.  He  looks  across  the  snow  at  the  Army, 
and  sees  the  rifles  that  we  had  brought  into  the 
country. 

'*  'We're  done  for,'  says  he.  'They  are  Eng- 
lishmen, these  people, — and  it's  my  blasted  non- 
sense that  has  brought  you  to  this.  Get  back, 
Billy   Fish,   and  take  your  men  away;    you've 


1 66  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

done  what  you  could,  and  now  cut  for  it.  Car- 
nehan/ says  he,  'shake  hands  with  me  and  go 
along  with  Billy.  Maybe  they  won't  kill  you. 
I'll  go  and  meet  'em  alone.  It's  me  that  did  it. 
Me,  the  King!' 

***Go!'  says  I.  'Goto  Hell,  Dan.  I'm  with 
you  here.  Billy  Fish,  you  clear  out,  and  we  two 
will  meet  those  folk.' 

"  '  I'm  a  Chief,'  says  Billy  Fish,  quite  quiet.  '  I 
stay  with  you.     My  men  can  go.' 

"The  Bashkai  fellows  didn't  wait  for  a  second 
word  but  ran  off,  and  Dan  and  Me  and  Billy  Fish 
walked  across  to  where  the  drums  were  drum- 
ming and  the  horns  were  horning.  It  was  cold 
— awful  cold.  I've  got  that  cold  in  the  back  of 
my  head  now.     There's  a  lump  of  it  there." 

The  punkah-coolies  had  gone  to  sleep.  Two 
kerosene  lamps  were  blazing  in  the  office,  and 
the  perspiration  poured  down  my  face  and 
splashed  on  the  blotter  as  I  leaned  forward. 
Carnehan  was  shivering,  and  I  feared  that  his 
mind  might  go.  I  wiped  my  face,  took  a  fresh 
grip  of  the  piteously  mangled  hands,  and  said: — 
"  What  happened  after  that  ?  " 

The  momentary  shift  of  my  eyes  had  broken 
the  clear  current. 

* '  What  was  you  pleased  to  say  ?  "  whined 
Carnehan.  "They  took  them  without  any 
sound.     Not  a  little  whisper  all  along  the  snow, 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  167 

not  though   the   King  knocked  down  the  first 
man    that    set    hand   on   him — not  though  old 
Peachey  fired  his  last  cartridge  into  the  brown  of 
'em.     Not    a    single  solitary   sound    did    those 
swines  make.     They  just  closed  up  tight,  and  I 
tell  you  their  furs    stunk.     There  was  a   man 
called   Billy  Fish,  a   good  friend   of  us  all,  and 
they  cut  his  throat.   Sir,  then  and  there,  like  a 
pig;  and  the  King  kicks  up  the  bloody  snow  and 
says: — 'We've   had  a  dashed  fine  run  for  our 
money.     What's  coming  next.?'     But  Peachey, 
Peachey  Taliaferro,  I  tell  you.  Sir,  in  confidence 
as  betwixt  two  friends,  he  lost  his  head.  Sir. 
No,  he  didn't  neither.     The  King  lost  his  head, 
so  he  did,  all  along  o'  one  of  those  cunning  rope- 
bridges.     Kindly  let  me  have  the  paper-cutter, 
Sir.     It  tilted  this  way.     They  marched  him  a 
mile  across  that  snow  to  a  rope-bridge  over  a 
ravine  with  a  river  at  the  bottom.     You  may 
have  seen  such.     They  prodded  him  behind  like 
an    ox.     'Damn    your    eyes!'   says    the    King. 
'D'you  suppose  I  can't  die  like  a  gentleman?' 
He  turns  to  Peachey — Peachey  that  was  crying 
like  a  child.     '  I've  brought  you  to  this,  Peachey,' 
says  he.     *  Brought  you  out  of  your  happy  life 
to  be  killed  in  Kafiristan,  where  you  was  late 
Commander-in-Chief  of  the   Emperor's   forces. 
Say   you    forgive    me,    Peachey.'     *I   do,'   says 
Peachey.     *  Fully  and  freely  do   I   forgive  you, 


i68  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

Dan.'  'Shake  hands,  Peachey,' says  he.  'I'm 
going  now.'  Out  he  goes,  looking  neither  right 
nor  left,  and  when  he  was  plumb  in  the  middle 
of  those  dizzy  dancing  ropes,  '  Cut,  you  beg- 
gars,' he  shouts;  and  they  cut,  and  old  Dan  fell, 
turning  round  and  round  and  round  twenty 
thousand  miles,  for  he  took  half  an  hour  to  fall 
till  he  struck  the  water,  and  I  could  see  his 
body  caught  on  a  rock  with  the  gold  crown  close 
beside. 

*'  But  do  you  know  what  they  did  to  Peachey 
between  two  pine  trees.?  They  crucified  him, 
Sir,  as  Peachey's  hand  will  show.  They  used 
wooden  pegs  for  his  hands  and  his  feet;  and  he 
didn't  die.  He  hung  there  and  screamed,  and 
they  took  him  down  next  day,  and  said  it  was  a 
miracle  that  he  wasn't  dead.  They  took  him 
down— poor  old  Peachey  that  hadn't  done  them 
any  harm — that  hadn't  done  them  any.    .     .     ." 

He  rocked  to  and  fro  and  wept  bitterly, 
wiping  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  scarred 
hands  and  moaning  like  a  child  for  some  ten 
minutes. 

"They  was  cruel  enough  to  feed  him  up  in  the 
temple,  because  they  said  he  was  more  of  a  God 
than  old  Daniel  that  was  a  man.  Then  they 
turned  him  out  on  the  snow,  and  told  him  to  go 
home,  and  Peachey  came  home  in  about  a  year, 
begging  along  the  roads  quite  safe;  for  Daniel 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  169 

Dravot  he  walked  before  and  said : — *  Come 
along,  Peachey.  It's  a  big  thing  we're  doing.' 
The  mountains  they  danced  at  night,  and  the 
mountains  they  tried  to  fall  on  Peachey's  head, 
but  Dan  he  held  up  his  hand,  and  Peachey  came 
along  bent  double.  He  never  let  go  of  Dan's 
hand,  and  he  never  let  go  of  Dan's  head.  They 
gave  it  to  him  as  a  present  in  the  temple,  to 
remind  him  not  to  come  again,  and  though  the 
crown  was  pure  gold,  and  Peachey  was  starving, 
never  would  Peachey  sell  the  same.  You  knew 
Dravot,  Sir !  You  knew  Right  Worshipful  Brother 
Dravot !     Look  at  him  now  1 " 

He  fumbled  in  the  mass  of  rags  round  his  bent 
waist;  brought  out  a  black  horsehair  bag  em- 
broidered with  silver  thread;  and  shook  there- 
from on  to  my  table — the  dried,  withered  head 
of  Daniel  Dravot!  The  morning  sun  that  had 
long  been  paling  the  lamps  struck  the  red  beard 
and  blind  sunken  eyes;  struck,  too,  a  heavy 
circlet  of  gold  studded  with  raw  turquoises,  that 
Carnehan  placed  tenderly  on  the  battered  tem- 
ples. 

**You  behold  now,"  said  Carnehan,  ''the 
Emperor  in  his  habit  as  he  lived — the  King  of 
Kaflristan  with  his  crown  upon  his  head.  Poor 
old  Daniel  that  was  a  monarch  once! " 

I  shuddered,  for,  in  spite  of  defacements  mani- 
fold, I  recognized  the  head  of  the  man  of  Mar- 


lyo  The  Man  Who  Would  be  King 

war  Junction.  Carnehan  rose  to  go.  I  attempted 
to  stop  him.  He  was  not  fit  to  walk  abroad. 
*'  Let  me  take  away  tlie  whiskey,  and  give  me  a 
little  money,"  he  gasped.  "I  was  a  King  once. 
I'll  go  to  the  Deputy  Commissioner  and  ask  to  set 
in  the  Poorhouse  till  I  get  my  health.  No,  thank 
you,  I  can't  wait  till  you  get  a  carriage  for  me. 
I've  urgent  private  affairs — in  the  south — at  Mar- 
war." 

He  shambled  out  of  the  office  and  departed  in 
the  direction  of  the  Deputy  Commissioner's 
house.  That  day  at  noon  I  had  occasion  to  go 
down  the  blinding  hot  Mall,  and  I  saw  a  crooked 
man  crav/ling  along  the  white  dust  of  the  road- 
side, his  hat  in  his  hand,  quavering  dolorously 
after  the  fashion  of  street-singers  at  Home. 
There  was  not  a  soul  in  sight,  and  he  was  out  of 
all  possible  earshot  of  the  houses.  And  he  sang 
through  his  nose,  turning  his  head  from  right  to 
left: 

"  The  Son  of  Man  goes  forth  to  war, 
A  golden  crown  to  gain ; 
His  blood-red  banner  streams  afar — 
Who  follows  in  his  train  ?  " 

I  waited  to  hear  no  more,  but  put  the  poor 
wretch  into  my  carriage  and  drove  him  off  to  the 
nearest  missionary  for  eventual  transfer  to  the 
Asylum.  He  repeated  the  hymn  twice  while  he 
was  with   me  whom   he   did  not  in  the  least 


The  Man  Who  Would  be  King  1 71 

recognize,  and  I  left  him  singing  it  to  the  mis- 
sionary. 

Two  days  later  I  inquired  after  his  welfare  of 
the  Superintendent  of  the  Asylum. 

"He  was  admitted  suffering  from  sunstroke. 
He  died  early  yesterday  morning,"  said  the 
Superintendent.  "  Is  it  true  that  he  was  half  an 
hour  bareheaded  in  the  sun  at  midday  .^" 

"Yes,"  said  I,  ''but  do  you  happen  to  know  if 
he  had  anything  upon  him  by  any  chance  when 
he  died?" 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,"  said  the  Superin- 
tendent. 

And  there  the  matter  rests. 


THE  FINEST  STORY  IN  THE  WORLD 


"THE  FINEST  STORY  IN  THE 
WORLD" 

*'  Or  ever  the  knightly  years  were  gone 
With  the  old  world  to  the  grave, 
I  was  a  king  in  Babylon 

And  you  were  a  Christian  slave." 
—  IV.  E.  Henley. 

HIS  name  was  Charlie  Mears;  he  was  the  only 
son  of  his  mother  who  was  a  widow,  and 
he  lived  in  the  north  of  London,  coming  into  the 
City  every  day  to  work  in  a  bank.  He  was 
twenty  years  old  and  suffered  from  aspirations. 
I  met  him  in  a  public  billiard-saloon  where  the 
marker  called  him  by  his  given  name,  and  he 
called  the  marker  "  Bullseyes."  Charlie  ex- 
plained, a  little  nervously,  that  he  had  only  come 
to  the  place  to  look  on,  and  since  looking  on  at 
games  of  skill  is  not  a  cheap  amusement  for  the 
young,  I  suggested  that  Charlie  should  go  back 
to  his  mother. 

That  was  our  first  step  toward  better  acquaint- 
ance. He  would  call  on  me  sometimes  in  the 
evenings  instead  of  running  about  London  with 
his  fellow-clerks;  and  before  long,  speaking  of 
himself  as  a  young  man  must,  he  told  me  of  his 
175 


176  **The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'" 

aspirations,  which  were  all  literary.  He  desired 
to  make  himself  an  undying  name  chiefly  through 
verse,  though  he  was  not  above  sending  stories 
of  love  and  death  to  the  drop-a-penny-in-the- 
slot  journals.  It  was  my  fate  to  sit  still  while 
Charlie  read  me  poems  of  many  hundred  lines, 
and  bulky  fragments  of  plays  that  would  surely 
shake  the  world.  My  reward  was  his  unreserved 
confidence,  and  the  self-revelations  and  troubles 
of  a  young  man  are  almost  as  holy  as  those  of  a 
maiden.  Charlie  had  never  fallen  in  love,  but 
was  anxious  to  do  so  on  the  first  opportunity;  he 
believed  in  all  things  good  and  all  things  honor- 
able, but,  at  the  same  time,  was  curiously  careful 
to  let  me  see  that  he  knew  his  way  about  the 
world  as  befitted  a  bank  clerk  on  twenty-tlve 
shillings  a  week.  He  rhymed  "  dove "  with 
"  love  "  and  "  moon  "  with  **  June,"  and  devoutly 
Ijelieved  that  they  had  never  so  been  rhymed  be- 
fore. The  long  lame  gaps  in  his  plays  he  filled 
up  v/ith  hasty  words  of  apology  and  description 
and  swept  on,  seeing  all  that  he  intended  to  do 
so  clearly  that  he  esteemed  it  already  done,  and 
turned  to  me  for  applause. 

I  fancy  that  his  mother  did  not  encourage  his 
aspirations,  and  I  know  that  his  writing-table  at 
home  was  the  edge  of  his  washstand.  This  he 
told  me  almost  at  the  outset  of  our  acquaintance; 
when  he  was  ravaging  my  bookshelves,  and  a 


The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'*  177 


little  before  I  was  implored  to  speak  the  truth  as 
to  his  chances  of  ''writing  something  really 
great,  you  know."  Maybe  I  encouraged  him 
too  much,  for,  one  night,  he  called  on  me,  his 
eyes  flaming  with  excitement,  and  said  breath- 
lessly : 

*'  Do  you  mind — can  you  let  me  stay  here  and 
write  all  this  evening  ?  I  won't  interrupt  you,  I 
won't  really.  There's  no  place  for  me  to  write 
in  at  my  mother's." 

"What's  the  trouble?"  I  said,  knowing  well 
what  that  trouble  was. 

''I've  a  notion  in  my  head  that  would  make 
the  most  splendid  story  that  was  ever  written. 
Do  let  me  write  it  out  here.     It's  such  a.  notion!  '* 

There  was  no  resisting  the  appeal.  I  set  him 
a  table;  he  hardly  thanked  me,  but  plunged  into 
the  work  at  once.  For  half  an  hour  the  pen 
scratched  without  stopping.  Then  Charli.e  sighed 
and  tugged  his  hair.  The  scratching  grew 
slower,  there  were  more  erasures,  and  at  last 
ceased.  The  finest  story  in  the  world  would  not 
come  forth. 

"  It  looks  such  awful  rot  now,"  he  said,  mourn- 
fully. "  And  yet  it  seemed  so  good  when  I  was 
thinking  about  it.     What's  wrong  ? " 

1  could  not  dishearten  him  by  saying  the  truth. 
So  I  answered:  "  Perhaps  you  don't  feel  in  the 
mood  for  writing." 


178  **The  Finest  Story  in  the  World** 

"Yes  I  do — except  when  I  look  at  this  stuff. 
Ugh!" 

*'  Read  me  what  you've  done,"  I  said. 

"He  read,  and  it  was  wondrous  bad,  and  he 
paused  at  all  the  specially  turgid  sentences,  ex- 
pecting a  little  approval;  for  he  was  proud  of 
those  sentences,  as  I  knew  he  would  be. 

"It  needs  compression,"  I  suggested,  cau- 
tiously. 

"I  hate  cutting  my  things  down.  I  don't 
think  you  could  alter  a  word  here  without  spoil- 
ing the  sense.  It  reads  better  aloud  than  when  I 
was  writing  it." 

"Charlie,  you're  suffering  from  an  alarming 
disease  afflicting  a  numerous  class.  Put  the 
thing  by,  and  tackle  it  again  in  a  week." 

"I  want  to  do  it  at  once.  What  do  you  think 
of  it.?" 

"How  can  I  judge  from  a  half-written  tale? 
Tell  me  the  story  as  it  lies  in  your  head." 

Charlie  told,  and  in  the  telling  there  was  every- 
thing that  his  ignorance  had  so  carefully  pre- 
vented from  escaping  into  the  written  word.  I 
looked  at  him,  and  wondering  whether  it  were 
possible  that  he  did  not  know  the  originality,  the 
power  of  the  notion  that  had  come  in  his  way .? 
It  was  distinctly  a  Notion  among  notions.  Men 
had  been  puffed  up  with  pride  by  notions  not  a 
tithe  as  excellent  and  practicable.     But  Charlie 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  179 

babbled  on  serenely,  interrupting  the  current  of 
pure  fancy  with  samples  of  horrible  sentences 
that  he  purposed  to  use.  I  heard  him  but  to  the 
end.  It  would  be  folly  to  allow  his  idea  to  re- 
main in  his  own  inept  hands,  when  I  could  do  so 
much  with  it.  Not  all  that  could  be  done  in- 
deed; but,  oh  so  much! 

"What  do  you  think?"  he  said,  at  last.  *'I 
fancy  I  shall  call  it  '  The  Story  of  a  Ship.'  " 

"  I  think  the  idea's  pretty  good;  but  you  won't 
be  able  to  handle  it  for  ever  so  long.     Now  I  "— 

*'  Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  you .?  Would  you 
care  to  take  it?  I  should  be  proud,"  said  Charlie, 
promptly. 

There  are  few  things  sweeter  in  this  world 
than  the  guileless,  hot-headed,  intemperate,  open 
admiration  of  a  junior.  Even  a  woman  in  her 
blindest  devotion  does  not  fall  into  the  gait  of  the 
man  she  adores,  tilt  her  bonnet  to  the  angle  at 
which  he  wears  his  hat,  or  interlard  her  speech 
with  his  pet  oaths.  And  Charlie  did  all  these 
things.  Still  it  was  necessary  to  salve  my  con- 
science before  I  possessed  myself  of  Charlie's 
thoughts. 

"  Let's  make  a  bargain.  I'll  give  you  a  fiver 
for  the  notion,"  I  said. 

Charlie  became  a  bank-clerk  at  once. 

"Oh,  that's  impossible.  Between  two  pals, 
you  know,  if  I  may  call  you  so,  and  speaking  as 


i8o  "The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

a  man  of  the  world,  I  couldn't.  Take  the  notion 
if  it's  any  use  to  you.     I've  heaps  more." 

He  had — none  knew  this  better  than  I— but 
they  were  the  notions  of  other  men. 

"  Look  at  it  as  a  matter  of  business— between 
men  of  the  world,"]  returned.  "Five  pounds 
will  buy  you  any  number  of  poetry-books.  Busi- 
ness is  business,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  shouldn't 
give  that  price  unless  " — 

"Oh,  if  you  put  it  that  way,"  said  Charlie, 
visibly  moved  by  the  thought  of  the  books.  The 
bargain  was  clinched  with  an  agreement  that  he 
should  at  unstated  intervals  come  to  me  with  all 
the  notions  that  he  possessed,  should  have  a  table 
of  his  own  to  write  at,  and  unquestioned  right  to 
inflict  upon  me  all  his  poems  and  fragments  of 
poems.  Then  I  said,  "Now  tell  me  how  you 
came  by  this  idea." 

"It  came  by  itself."  Charlie's  eyes  opened  a 
little. 

"  Yes,  but  you  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the 
hero  that  you  must  have  read  before  somewhere." 

"I  haven't  any  time  for  reading,  except  when 
you  let  me  sit  here,  and  on  Sundays  I'm  on  my 
bicycle  or  down  the  river  all  day.  There's  noth- 
ing wrong  about  the  hero,  is  there  }  " 

"Tell  me  again  and  I  shall  understand  clearly. 
You  say  that  your  hero  went  pirating.  How  did 
he  live  ?  " 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  IV or  Id''  i8j 

*'  He  was  on  the  lower  deck  of  this  ship-thing 
that  I  was  telling  you  about." 

'*  What  sort  of  ship?" 

*'It  was  the  kind  rowed  with  oars,  and  the  sea 
spurts  through  the  oar-holes  and  the  men  row 
sitting  up  to  their  knees  in  water.  Then  there's 
a  bench  running  down  between  the  two  lines  of 
oars  and  an  overseer  with  a  whip  walks  up  and 
down  the  bench  to  make  the  men  work." 

'*  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  It's  in  the  tale.  There's  a  rope  running  over- 
head, looped  to  the  upper  deck,  for  the  overseer 
to  catch  hold  of  when  the  ship  rolls.  When  the 
overseer  misses  the  rope  once  and  falls  among 
the  rowers,  remember  the  hero  laughs  at  him  and 
gets  licked  for  it.  He's  chained  to  his  oar  of 
course — the  hero." 

"  How  is  he  chained  ?" 

"  With  an  iron  band  round  his  waist  fixed  to 
the  bench  he  sits  on,  and  a  sort  of  handcuff  on 
his  left  wrist  chaining  him  to  the  oar.  He's  on 
the  lower  deck  where  the  worst  men  are  sent, 
and  the  only  light  comes  from  the  hatchways 
and  through  the  oar-holes.  Can't  you  imagine 
the  sunlight  just  squeezing  through  between  the 
handle  and  the  hole  and  wobbling  about  as  the 
ship  moves  ?  " 

**I  can,  but  I  can't  imagine  your  imagining  it." 

**  How  could  it  be  any  other  way?    Now  you 


1 82  *'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'* 

listen  to  me.  The  long  oars  on  the  upper  deck 
are  managed  by  four  men  to  each  bench,  the 
lower  ones  by  three,  and  the  lowest  of  all  by 
two.  Remember  it's  quite  dark  on  the  lowest 
deck  and  all  the  men  there  go  mad.  When  a 
man  dies  at  his  oar  on  that  deck  he  isn't  thrown 
overboard,  but  cut  up  in  his  chains  and  stuffed 
through  the  oar-hole  in  little  pieces." 

**  Why?"  I  demanded,  amazed,  not  so  much  at 
the  information  as  the  tone  of  command  in  which 
it  was  flung  out. 

**To  save  trouble  and  to  frighten  the  others. 
It  needs  two  overseers  to  drag  a  man's  body  up 
to  the  top  deck;  and  if  the  men  at  the  lower 
deck  oars  were  left  alone,  of  course  they'd  stop 
rowing  and  try  to  pull  up  the  benches  by  all 
standing  up  together  in  their  chains." 

"  You've  a  most  provident  imagination.  Where 
have  you  been  reading  about  galleys  and  galley- 
slaves?" 

"Nowhere  that  I  remember.  I  row  a  little 
when  I  get  the  chance.  But,  perhaps,  if  you  say 
so,  I  may  have  read  something." 

He  went  away  shortly  afterward  to  deal  with 
booksellers,  and  I  wondered  how  a  bank  clerk 
aged  twenty  could  put  into  my  hands  with  a 
profligate  abundance  of  detail,  all  given  with  ab- 
solute assurance,  the  story  of  extravagant  and 
bloodthirsty  adventure,  riot,   piracy,  and  death 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the   World''  185 

in  unnamed  seas.  He  had  led  his  hero  a  des- 
perate dance  through  revolt  against  the  over- 
seers, to  command  of  a  ship  of  his  own,  and  ulti- 
mate establishment  of  a  kingdom  on  an  island 
*' somewhere  in  the  sea,  you  know  ";  and,  de- 
lighted with  my  paltry  five  pounds,  had  gone  out 
to  buy  the  notions  of  other  men,  that  these  might 
teach  him  how  to  write.  I  had  the  consolation 
of  knowing  that  this  notion  was  mine  by  right 
of  purchase,  and  I  thought  that  I  could  make 
something  of  it. 

When  next  he  came  to  me  he  was  drunk — 
royally  drunk  on  many  poets  for  the  first  time 
revealed  to  him.  His  pupils  were  dilated,  his 
words  tumbled  over  each  other,  and  he  wrapped 
himself  in  quotations.  Most  of  all  was  he  drunk 
with  Longfellow. 

"  Isn't  it  splendid  }  Isn't  it  superb  ?  "  he  cried, 
after  hasty  greetings.     "  Listen  to  this  — 

"  *  Wouldst  thou,' — so  the  helmsman  answered, 
*  Know  the  secret  of  the  sea  ? 
Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery.' 

By  gum! 

" « Only  those  who  brave  its  dangers 
Comprehend  its  mystery,' " 

he  repeated  twenty  times,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room  and  forgetting  me.     "  But  /  can  under- 


'184  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World*' 

stand  it  too,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  I  don't  know 
how  to  thank  you  for  that  fiver.  And  this; 
listen  — 

**  *  I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  ships 
And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free, 
And  the  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea.' 

1  haven't  braved  any  dangers,  but  I  feel  as  if  I 
Jcnew  all  about  it." 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  have  a  grip  of  the  sea. 
Have  you  ever  seen  \\}" 

"When  I  was  a  little  chap  I  went  to  Brighton 
once;  we  used  to  live  in  Coventry,  though,  be- 
fore we  came  to  London.     I  never  saw  it, 

"  <  When  descends  on  the  Atlantic 
The  gigantic 
Storm- wind  of  the  Equinox.'  " 

He  shook  me  by  the  shoulder  to  make  me  un- 
derstand the  passion  that  was  shaking  himself. 

''When  that  storm  comes,"  he  continued,  "I 
think  that  all  the  oars  in  the  ship  that  1  was  talk- 
ing about  get  broken,  and  the  rowers  have  their 
chests  smashed  in  by  the  bucking  oar-heads.  By 
the  way,  have  you  done  anything  with  that 
notion  of  mine  yet  ?" 

"No.  I  was  waiting  to  hear  more  of  it  from 
you.     Tell  me  how  in  the  world  you're  so  certain 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  185 

about  the  fittings  of  the  ship.  You  know  noth- 
ing of  ships." 

*M  don't  know.  It's  as  real  as  anything  to 
me  until  I  try  to  write  it  down.  I  was  thinking 
about  it  only  last  night  in  bed,  after  you  had 
loaned  me  *  Treasure  Island ' ;  and  I  made  up  a 
whole  lot  of  new  things  to  go  into  the  story." 

''What  sort  of  things.?" 

**  About  the  food  the  men  ate;  rotten  figs  and 
black  beans  and  wine  in  a  skin  bag,  passed  from 
bench  to  bench." 

'*  Was  the  ship  built  so  long  ago  as  that?" 

*'  As  what  ?  I  don't  know  whether  it  was  long 
ago  or  not.  It's  only  a  notion,  but  sometimes  it 
seems  just  as  real  as  if  it  was  true.  Do  I  bother 
you  with  talking  about  it  ?  " 

"Not  in  the  least.  Did  you  make  up  anything 
else?  " 

'*Yes,  but  it's  nonsense."  Charlie  flushed  a 
little. 

**  Never  mind;  let's  hear  about  it." 

**Well,  I  was  thinking  over  the  story,  and 
after  awhile  I  got  out  of  bed  and  wrote  down  on 
a  piece  of  paper  the  sort  of  stuff  the  men  might 
be  supposed  to  scratch  on  their  oars  with  the 
edges  of  their  handcuffs.  It  seemed  to  make 
the  thing  more  lifelike.  It  is  so  real  to  me, 
y'know." 

"Have  you  the  paper  on  you ? " 


1 86  *'The  Finest  Story  in  the  JVorld'^ 

*'Ye-es,  but  what's  the  use  of  showing  it? 
It's  only  a  lot  of  scratches.  All  the  same,  we 
might  have  'em  reproduced  in  the  book  on  the 
front  page." 

'Til  attend  to  those  details.  Show  me  what 
your  men  wrote." 

He  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  sheet  of  note- 
paper,  with  a  single  line  of  scratches  upon  it, 
and  I  put  this  carefully  away. 

"What  is  it  supposed  to  mean  in  English?"  I 
said. 

"Oh,  1  don't  know.  Perhaps  it  means  'I'm 
beastly  tired.'  It's  great  nonsense,"  he  repeated, 
"but  all  those  men  in  the  ship  seem  as  real  as 
people  to  me.  Do  do  something  to  the  no- 
tion soon;  I  should  like  to  see  it  written  and 
printed." 

"But  all  you've  told  me  would  make  along 
book." 

"  Make  it  then.  You've  only  to  sit  down  and 
write  it  out." 

"Give  me  a  little  time.  Have  you  any  more 
notions  ? " 

"  Not  just  now.  I'm  reading  all  the  books  I've 
bought.     They're  splendid." 

When  he  had  left  1  looked  at  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  with  the  inscription  upon  it.  Then  I  took 
my  head  tenderly  between  both  hands,  to  make 
certain  that  it  was  not  coming  off  or  turning 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  187 

round.  Then  .  .  .  but  there  seemed  to  be 
no  interval  between  quitting  my  rooms  and  find- 
ing myself  arguing  with  a  policeman  outside  a 
door  marked  Private  in  a  corridor  of  the  British 
Museum.  All  I  demanded,  as  politely  as  possi- 
ble, was  "the  Greek  antiquity  man."  The  police- 
man knew  nothing  except  the  rules  of  the 
Museum,  and  it  became  necessary  to  forage 
through  all  the  houses  and  offices  inside  the 
gates.  An  elderly  gentleman  called  away  from 
his  lunch  put  an  end  to  my  search  by  holding  the 
note-paper  between  finger  and  thumb  and  sniff- 
ing at  it  scornfully. 

"What  does  this  mean.?  H'mm,"  said  he. 
"So  far  as  I  can  ascertain  it  is  an  attempt  to 
write  extremely  corrupt  Greek  on  the  part" — 
here  he  glared  at  me  with  intention — "of  an  ex- 
tremely illiterate — ah — person."  He  read  slowly 
from  the  paper,  ''Pollock,  Erckmann,  Tauchnit^, 
Henniker  " — four  names  familiar  to  me. 

"Can  you  tell  me  what  the  corruption  is  sup- 
posed to  mean — the  gist  of  the  thing?"  I  asked. 

"I  have  been — many  times — overcome  with 
weariness  in  this  particular  employment.  That 
is  the  meaning."  He  returned  me  the  paper,  and 
I  fled  without  a  word  of  thanks,  explanation,  or 
apology. 

I  might  have  been  excused  for  forgetting  much. 
To  me  of  all  men  had  been  given  the  chance  to 


i88  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

write  the  most  marvelous  tale  in  the  world, 
nothing  less  than  the  story  of  a  Greek  galley- 
slave,  as  told  by  himself.  Small  wonder  that  his 
dreaming  had  seemed  real  to  Charlie.  The  Fates 
that  are  so  careful  to  shut  the  doors  of  each  suc- 
cessive life  behind  us  had,  in  this  case,  been 
neglectful,  and  Charlie  was  looking,  though  that 
he  did  not  know,  where  never  man  had  been 
permitted  to  look  with  full  knowledge  since  Time 
began.  Above  all,  he  was  absolutely  ignorant 
of  the  knowledge  sold  to  me  for  five  pounds; 
and  he  would  retain  that  ignorance,  for  bank- 
clerks  do  not  understand  metempsychosis,  and  a 
sound  commercial  education  does  not  include 
Greek.  He  would  supply  me — here  I  capered 
among  the  dumb  gods  of  Egypt  and  laughed  in 
their  battered  faces — with  material  to  make  my 
tale  sure — so  sure  that  the  world  would  hail  it  as 
an  impudent  and  vamped  fiction.  And  I — I 
alone  would  know  that  it  was  absolutely  and 
litei'ally  true.  I, — I  alone  held  this  jewel  to  my 
hand  for  the  cutting  and  polishing.  Therefore  I 
danced  again  among  the  gods  till  a  policeman 
saw  me  and  took  steps  in  my  direction. 

It  remained  now  only  to  encourage  Charlie  to 
talk,  and  here  there  was  no  difficulty.  But  I  had 
forgotten  those  accursed  books  of  poetry.  He 
came  to  me  time  after  time,  as  useless  as  a  sur- 
charged phonograph — drunk  on  Byron,  Shelley,  or 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  189 

Keats.  Knowing  now  what  the  boy  had  been  in 
his  past  lives,  and  desperately  anxious  not  to  lose 
one  word  of  his  babble,  1  could  not  hide  from  him 
my  respect  and  interest.  He  misconstrued  both 
into  respect  for  the  present  soul  of  Charlie  Mears, 
to  whom  life  was  as  new  as  it  was  to  Adam,  and 
interest  in  his  readings;  and  stretched  my  pa- 
tience to  breaking  point  by  reciting  poetry— not 
his  own  now,  but  that  of  others.  I  wished  every 
English  poet  blotted  out  of  the  memory  of  man- 
kind. I  blasphemed  the  mightiest  names  of  song 
because  they  had  drawn  Charlie  from  the  path  of 
direct  narrative,  and  would,  later,  spur  him  to 
imitate  them;  but  I  choked  down  my  impatience 
until  the  first  flood  of  enthusiasm  should  have 
spent  itself  and  the  boy  returned  to  his  dreams. 

"What's  the  use  of  my  telling  you  what  / 
think,  when  these  chaps  wrote  things  for  the 
angels  to  read?"  he  growled,  one  evening. 
"Why  don't  you  write  something  like  theirs  ?" 

"  I  don't  think  you're  treating  me  quite  fairly," 
I  said,  speaking  under  strong  restraint. 

"I've  given  you  the  story,"  he  said,  shortly, 
replunging  into  "  Lara." 

"  But  I  want  the  details." 

"The  things  1  make  up  about  that  damned 
ship  that  you  call  a  galley  ?  They're  quite  easy. 
You  can  just  make  'em  up  yourself.  Turn  up 
the  gas  a  little,  1  want  to  go  on  reading." 


190  **The  Finest  Story  in  the  IVorld" 

I  could  have  broken  the  gas  globe  over  his 
head  for  his  amazing  stupidity.  1  could  indeed 
make  up  things  for  myself  did  I  only  know  what 
Charlie  did  not  know  that  he  knew.  But  since 
the  doors  were  shut  behind  me  I  could  only  wait 
his  youthful  pleasure  and  strive  to  keep  him  in 
good  temper.  One  minute's  want  of  guard 
might  spoil  a  priceless  revelation:  now  and  again 
he  would  toss  his  books  aside — he  kept  them  in 
my  rooms,  for  his  mother  would  have  been 
shocked  at  the  waste  of  good  money  had  she 
seen  them — and  launched  into  his  sea  dreams. 
Again  I  cursed  all  the  poets  of  England.  The 
plastic  mind  of  the  bank-clerk  had  been  overlaid, 
colored  and  distorted  by  that  which  he  had  read, 
and  the  result  as  delivered  was  a  confused  tangle 
of  other  voices  most  like  the  muttered  song 
through  a  City  telephone  in  the  busiest  part  of 
the  day. 

He  talked  of  the  galley — his  own  galley  had  he 
but  known  it — with  illustrations  borrowed  from 
the  '*  Bride  of  Abydos."  He  pointed  the  ex- 
periences of  his  hero  with  quotations  from 
"The  Corsair,"  and  threw  in  deep  and  desperate 
moral  reflections  from  **  Cain  "  and '' Manfred," 
expecting  me  to  use  them  all.  Only  when  the 
talk  turned  on  Longfellow  were  the  jarring 
cross-currents  dumb,  and  I  knew  that  Charlie 
was  speaking  the  truth  as  he  remembered  it. 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  IVorld"  191 

"  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?  "  I  said  one  even- 
ing, as  soon  as  I  understood  the  medium  in  which 
his  memory  worked  best,  and,  before  he  could 
expostulate,  read  him  the  whole  of  "The  Saga 
of  KingOlaf!" 

He  listened  open-mouthed,  flushed,  his  hands 
drumming  on  the  back  of  the  sofa  where  he  lay, 
till  I  came  to  the  Song  of  Einar  Tamberskelver 
and  the  verse: 

"  Einar  then,  the  arrow  taking 
From  the  loosened  string, 
Answered :  « That  was  Norway  breaking 
'Neath  thy  hand,  O  King.'  " 

He  gasped  with  pure  delight  of  sound. 

**  That's  better  than  Byron,  a  little,"  I  ventured. 

''Better?  Why  it's  true/  How  could  he 
have  known  ?" 

I  went  back  and  repeated: 

" « What  was  that  ?  '  said  Olaf,  standing 
On  the  quarter-deck, 
'  Something  heard  I  like  the  stranding 
Of  a  shattered  wreck  ?  '  " 

"  How  could  he  have  known  how  the  ships 
crash  and  the  oars  rip  out  and  go  ^-^^p  all  along 
the  line?  Why  only  the  other  night.  .  .  . 
But  go  back  please  and  read  *  The  Skerry  of 
Shrieks '  again." 


192  "The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

**No,  I'm  tired.  Let's  talk.  What  happened 
the  other  night.?" 

"I  had  an  awful  nightmare  about  that  galley 
of  ours.  I  dreamed  I  was  drowned  in  a  tight. 
You  see  we  ran  alongside  another  ship  in  harbor. 
The  water  was  dead  still  except  where  our  oars 
whipped  it  up.  You  know  where  I  always  sit 
in  the  galley.?"  He  spoke  haltingly  at  first,  un- 
der a  fine  English  fear  of  being  laughed  at. 

"No.  That's  news  to  me,"  I  answered, 
meekly,  my  heart  beginning  to  beat. 

"  On  the  fourth  oar  from  the  bow  on  the  right 
side  on  the  upper  deck.  There  were  four  of  us 
at  that  oar,  all  chained.  I  remember  watching 
the  water  and  trying  to  get  my  handcuffs  off  be- 
fore the  row  began.  Then  we  closed  up  on  the 
other  ship,  and  all  their  fighting  men  jumped  over 
our  bulwarks,  and  my  bench  broke  and  I  was 
pinned  down  with  the  three  other  fellows  on  top 
of  me,  and  the  big  oar  jammed  across  our  backs." 

"Well  }  "  Charlie's  eyes  were  alive  and  alight. 
He  was  looking  at  the  wall  behind  my  chair. 

"I  don't  know  how  we  fought.  The  men 
were  trampling  all  over  my  back,  and  I  lay  low. 
Then  our  rowers  on  the  left  side — tied  to  their 
oars,  you  know — began  to  yell  and  back  water. 
1  could  hear  the  water  sizzle,  and  we  spun  round 
like  a  cockchafer  and  1  knew,  lying  where  I  was, 
that  there  was  a  galley  coming  up  bow-on,  to 


^'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  193 

ram  us  on  the  left  side.  I  could  just  lift  up  my 
head  and  see  her  sail  over  the  bulwarks.  We 
wanted  to  meet  her  bow  to  bow,  but  it  was  too 
late.  We  could  only  turn  a  little  bit  because  the 
galley  on  our  right  had  hooked  herself  on  to  us 
and  stopped  our  moving.  Then,  by  gum!  there 
was  a  crash !  Our  left  oars  began  to  break  as  the 
other  galley,  the  moving  one  y'know,  stuck  her 
nose  into  them.  Then  the  lower-deck  oars  shot 
up  through  the  deck  planking,  butt  first,  and  one 
of  them  jumped  clean  up  into  the  air  and  came 
down  again  close  to  my  head." 

**  How  was  that  managed  ?  " 

**The  moving  galley's  bow  was  plunking  them 
back  through  their  own  oar-holes,  and  I  could 
hear  the  devil  of  a  shindy  in  the  decks  below. 
Then  her  nose  caught  us  nearly  in  the  middle, 
and  we  tilted  sideways,  and  the  fellows  in  the 
right-hand  galley  unhitched  their  hooks  and 
ropes,  and  threw  things  on  to  our  upper  deck — 
arrows,  and  hot  pitch  or  something  that  stung, 
and  we  went  up  and  up  and  up  on  the  left  side, 
and  the  right  side  dipped,  and  I  twisted  my  head 
round  and  saw  the  water  stand  still  as  it  topped 
the  right  bulwarks,  and  then  it  curled  over  and 
crashed  down  on  the  whole  lot  of  us  on  the  right 
side,  and  I  felt  it  hit  my  back,  and  I  woke." 

''One  minute,  Charlie.  When  the  sea  topped 
the  bulwarks,  what  did  it  look  like  ?"    I  had  my 


1^4  '*The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

reasons  for  asking.  A  man  of  my  acquaintance 
had  once  gone  down  with  a  leaking  ship  in  a  still 
sea,  and  had  seen  the  water-level  pause  for  an 
instant  ere  it  fell  on  the  deck. 

''  It  looked  just  like  a  banjo-string  drawn  tight, 
and  it  seemed  to  stay  there  for  years,"  said 
Charlie. 

Exactly!  The  other  man  had  said:  "  It  looked 
like  a  silver  wire  laid  down  along  the  bulwarks, 
and  I  thought  it  was  never  going  to  break."  He 
had  paid  everything  except  the  bare  life  for  this 
little  valueless  piece  of  knowledge,  and  I  had 
traveled  ten  thousand  weary  miles  to  meet  him 
and  take  his  knowledge  at  second  hand.  But 
Charlie,  the  bank-clerk  on  twenty-five  shillings  a 
week,  he  who  had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  a 
London  omnibus,  knew  it  all.  It  was  no  conso- 
lation to  me  that  once  in  his  lives  he  had  been 
forced  to  die  for  his  gains.  I  also  must  have  died 
scores  of  times,  but  behind  me,  because  I  could 
have  used  my  knowledge,  the  doors  were  shut. 

''And  then?"  I  said,  trying  to  put  away  the 
devil  of  envy. 

"The  funny  thing  was,  though,  in  all  the  mess 
I  didn't  feel  a  bit  astonished  or  frightened.  It 
seemed  as  if  I'd  been  in  a  good  many  fights,  be- 
cause I  told  my  next  man  so  when  the  row  be- 
gan. But  that  cad  of  an  overseer  on  my  deck 
wouldn't  unloose  our  chains  and  give  us  a  chance. 


''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'*  195 

He  always  said  that  we'd  all  be  set  free  after  a 
battle,  but  we  never  were;  we  never  were." 
Charlie  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"What  a  scoundrel!" 

'*  I  should  say  he  was.  He  never  gave  us 
enough  to  eat,  and  sometimes  we  were  so  thirsty 
that  we  used  to  drink  salt-water.  I  can  taste 
that  salt-water  still." 

*'Now  tell  me  something  about  the  harbor 
where  the  fight  was  fought." 

"1  didn't  dream  about  that.  I  know  it  was  a 
harbor,  though;  because  we  were  tied  up  to  a 
ring  on  a  white  wall  and  all  the  face  of  the  stone 
under  water  was  covered  with  wood  to  prevent 
our  ram  getting  chipped  when  the  tide  made  us 
rock." 

"That's  curious.  Our  hero  commanded  the 
galley,  didn't  he  ?  " 

''Didn't  he  just!  He  stood  by  the  bows  and 
shouted  like  a  good  'un.  He  was  the  man  who 
killed  the  overseer." 

''But  you  were  all  drowned  together,  Charlie, 
weren't  you  } '" 

"I  can't  make  that  fit  quite,"  he  said,  with  a 
puzzled  look.  "The  galley  must  have  gone 
down  with  all  hands,  and  yet  I  fancy  that  the 
hero  went  on  living  afterward.  Perhaps  he 
climbed  into  the  attacking  ship.  I  wouldn't  see 
that,  of  course.     I  was  dead,  you  know." 


196  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  WorW 

He  shivered  slightly  and  protested  that  he 
could  remember  no  more. 

I  did  not  press  him  further,  but  to  satisfy  my- 
self that  he  lay  in  ignorance  of  the  workings  of 
his  own  mind,  deliberately  introduced  him  to 
Mortimer  Collins's  **  Transmigration,"  and  gave 
him  a  sketch  of  the  plot  before  he  opened  the 
pages. 

"What  rot  it  all  is!"  he  said,  frankly,  at  the 
end  of  an  hour.  **  I  don't  understand  his  non- 
sense about  the  Red  Planet  Mars  and  the  King, 
and  the  rest  of  it.  Chuck  me  the  Longfellow 
again." 

I  handed  him  the  book  and  wrote  out  as  much 
as  I  could  remember  of  his  description  of  the  sea- 
fight,  appealing  to  him  from  time  to  time  for 
confirmation  of  fact  or  detail.  He  would  answer 
without  raising  his  eyes  from  the  book,  as  assur- 
edly as  though  all  his  knowledge  lay  before  him 
on  the  printed  page.  I  spoke  under  the  normal 
key  of  my  voice  that  the  current  might  not  be 
broken,  and  I  know  that  he  was  not  aware  of 
what  he  was  saying,  for  his  thoughts  were  out 
on  the  sea  with  Longfellow. 

''Charlie,"  I  asked,  **when  the  rowers  on  the 
gallies  mutinied  how  did  they  kill  their  over- 
seers ?" 

"  Tore  up  the  benches  and  brained  'em.  That 
happened  when  a  heavy  sea  was  running.     An 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  IVorld"  197 

overseer  on  the  lower  deck  slipped  from  the 
centre  plank  and  fell  among  the  rowers.  They 
choked  him  to  death  against  the  side  of  the  ship 
with  their  chained  hands  quite  quietly,  and  it 
was  too  dark  for  the  other  overseer  to  see  what 
had  happened.  When  he  asked,  he  was  pulled 
down  too  and  choked,  and  the  lower  deck  fought 
their  way  up  deck  by  deck,  with  the  pieces  of 
the  broken  benches  banging  behind  'em.  How 
they  howled ! " 

''And  what  happened  after  that?" 

'M  don't  know.  The  hero  went  away— red 
hair  and  red  beard  and  all.  That  was  after  he 
had  captured  our  galley,  I  think." 

The  sound  of  my  voice  irritated  him,  and  he 
motioned  slightly  with  his  left  hand  as  a  man 
does  when  interruption  jars. 

**You  never  told  me  he  was  red-headed  be- 
fore, or  that  he  captured  your  galley,"  I  said, 
after  a  discreet  interval. 

Charlie  did  not  raise  his  eyes. 

"He  was  as  red  as  a  red  bear,"  said  he,  ab- 
stractedly. ''He  came  from  the  north ;  they  said 
so  in  the  galley  when  he  looked  for  rowers— not 
slaves,  but  free  men.  Afterward — years  and 
years  afterward— news  came  from  another  shipj 
or  else  he  came  back  " — 

His  lips  moved  in  silence.  He  was  rapturously 
retasting  some  poem  before  him. 


198  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

**  Where  had  he  been,  then?"  I  was  almost 
whispering  that  the  sentence  might  come  gentle 
to  whichever  section  of  Charlie's  brain  was 
working  on  my  behalf. 

"To  the  Beaches — the  Long  and  Wonderful 
Beaches !  "  was  the  reply,  after  a  minute  of  silence. 

"To  Furdurstrandi ? "  I  asked,  tingling  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Yes,  to  Furdurstrandi,"  he  pronounced  the 
w^ord  in  a  new  fashion.  "And  I  too  saw" — 
The  voice  failed. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  said?"  I 
shouted,  incautiously. 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  fully  roused  now.  "No!  " 
he  snapped.  "I  wish  you'd  let  a  chap  goon 
reading.     Hark  to  this: 

«  *  But  Othere,  the  old  sea  captain, 
He  neither  paused  nor  stirred 
Till  the  king  listened,  and  then 
Once  more  took  up  his  pen 
And  wrote  down  every  word. 

"  «  And  to  the  King  of  the  Saxons 
In  witness  of  the  truth, 
Raising  his  noble  head. 
He  stretched  his  brown  hand  and  said, 
"  Behold  this  walrus  tooth."  ' 

By  Jove,  what  chaps  those  must  have  been,  to 
go  sailing  all  over  the  shop  never  knowing  where 
they'd  fetch  the  land !     Hah !  " 


''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  199 

** Charlie,"  I  pleaded,  "if  you'll  only  be  sensi- 
ble for  a  minute  or  two  I'll  make  our  hero  in  our 
tale  every  inch  as  good  as  Othere." 

"Umph!  Longfellow  wrote  that  poem.  I 
don't  care  about  writing  things  any  more.  I 
want  to  read."  He  was  thoroughly  out  of  tune 
now,  and  raging  over  my  own  ill-luck,  1  left  him. 

Conceive  yourself  at  the  door  of  the  world's 
treasure-house  guarded  by  a  child — an  idle  irre- 
sponsible child  playing  knuckle-bones — on  whose 
favor  depends  the  gift  of  the  key,  and  you  will 
imagine  one  half  my  torment.  Till  that  evening 
Charlie  had  spoken  nothing  that  might  not  lie 
within  the  experiences  of  a  Greek  galley-slave. 
But  now,  or  there  was  no  virtue  in  books,  he 
had  talked  of  some  desperate  adventure  of  the 
Vikings,  of  Thorfm  Karlsefne's  sailing  to  Wine- 
land,  which  is  America,  in  the  ninth  or  tenth 
century.  The  battle  in  the  harbor  he  had  seen ; 
and  his  own  death  he  had  described.  But  this 
was  a  much  more  startling  plunge  into  the  past. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  had  skipped  half  a  dozen 
lives  and  was  then  dimly  remembering  some 
episode  of  a  thousand  years  later  .^  It  was  a 
maddening  jumble,  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that 
Charlie  Mears  in  his  normal  condition  was  the 
last  person  in  the  world  to  clear  it  up.  I  could 
only  wait  and  watch,  but  I  went  to  bed  that 
night  full  of  the  wildest  imaginings.     There  was 


2O0  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World " 

nothing  that  was  not  possible  if  Charlie's  detest- 
able memory  only  held  good. 

I  might  rewrite  the  Saga  of  Thortin  Karlsefne 
as  it  had  never  been  written  before,  might  tell 
the  story  of  the  first  discovery  of  America,  my- 
self the  discoverer.  But  I  was  entirely  at  Charlie's 
mercy,  and  so  long  as  there  was  a  three-and-six- 
penny  Bohn  volume  within  his  reach  Charlie 
would  not  tell.  I  dared  not  curse  him  openly;  I 
hardly  dared  jog  his  memory,  for  I  was  dealing 
with  the  experiences  of  a  thousand  years  ago, 
told  through  the  mouth  of  a  boy  of  to-day ;  and 
a  boy  of  to-day  is  affected  by  every  change  of 
tone  and  gust  of  opinion,  so  that  he  hes  even 
when  he  desires  to  speak  the  truth. 

1  saw  no  more  of  him  for  nearly  a  week. 
When  next  I  met  him  it  was  in  Gracechurch 
Street  with  a  billbook  chained  to  his  waist.  Busi- 
ness took  him  over  London  Bridge  and  I  accom- 
panied him.  He  was  very  full  of  the  impor- 
tance of  that  book  and  magnified  it.  As  we 
passed  over  the  Thames  we  paused  to  look  at 
a  steamer  unloading  great  slabs  of  white  and 
brown  marble.  A  barge  drifted  under  the 
steamer's  stern  and  a  lonely  cow  in  that  barge 
bellowed.  Charlie's  face  changed  from  the  face 
of  the  bank-clerk  to  that  of  an  unknown  and— 
though  he  would  not  have  believed  this — a  much 
shrewder  man.     He  flung  out  his  arm  across  the 


The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  201 


parapet  of  the  bridge  and  laughing  very  loudly, 
said: 

''  When  they  heard  our  bulls  bellow  the  Skroel- 
ings  ran  away! " 

1  waited  only  for  an  instant,  but  the  barge  and 
the  cow  had  disappeared  under  the  bows  of  the 
steamer  before  I  answered. 

"Charlie,  what  do  you  suppose  are  Skroel- 
ings?" 

''Never  heard  of  'em  before.  They  sound  like 
a  new  kind  of  seagull.  What  a  chap  you  are  for 
asking  questions! "  he  replied.  **  I  have  to  go  to 
the  cashier  of  the  Omnibus  Company  yonder. 
Will  you  wait  for  me  and  we  can  lunch  some- 
where together  ?    I've  a  notion  for  a  poem." 

*' No,  thanks.  I'm  off.  You're  sure  you  know 
nothing  about  Skroelings  ? " 

"Not  unless  he's  been  entered  for  the  Liver- 
pool Handicap."  He  nodded  and  disappeared  in 
the  crowd. 

Now  it  is  written  in  the  Saga  of  Eric  the  Red 
or  that  of  Thorfin  Karlsefne,  that  nine  hundred 
years  ago  when  Karlsefne's  galleys  came  to  Leif's 
booths,  which  Leif  had  erected  in  the  unknown 
land  called  Markland,  which  may  or  may  not  have 
been  Rhode  Island,  the  Skroelings— and  the  Lord 
He  knows  who  these  may  or  may  not  have  been 
— came  to  trade  with  the  Vikings,  and  ran  away 
because  they  were  frightened  at  the  bellowing  of 


202  *'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'* 

the  cattle  which  Thorfin  had  brought  with  him 
in  the  ships.  But  what  in  the  world  could  a 
Greek  slave  know  of  that  affair  ?  I  wandered  up 
and  down  among  the  streets  trying  to  unravel  the 
mystery,  and  the  more  I  considered  it,  the  more 
baffling  it  grew.  One  thing  only  seemed  certain, 
and  that  certainty  took  away  my  breath  for  the 
moment.  If  I  came  to  full  knowledge  of  anything 
at  all,  it  would  not  be  one  life  of  the  soul  in 
Charlie  Mears's  body,  but  half  a  dozen — half  a 
dozen  several  and  separate  existences  spent  on 
blue  water  in  the  morning  of  the  world! 

Then  I  walked  round  the  situation. 

Obviously  if  I  used  my  knowledge  I  should 
stand  alone  and  unapproachable  until  all  men 
were  as  wise  as  myself.  That  would  be  some- 
thing, but  manlike  I  was  ungrateful.  It  seemed 
bitterly  unfair  that  Charlie's  memory  should  fail 
me  when  I  needed  it  most.  Great  Powers  above 
—I  looked  up  at  them  through  the  fog  smoke- 
did  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death  know  what  this 
meant  to  me  ?  Nothing  less  than  eternal  fame  of 
the  best  kind,  that  comes  from  One,  and  is  shared 
by  one  alone.  I  would  be  content— remember- 
ing Clive,  I  stood  astounded  at  my  own  modera- 
tion,— with  the  mere  right  to  tell  one  story,  to 
work  out  one  little  contribution  to  the  light  litera- 
ture of  the  day.  If  Charlie  were  permitted  full 
recollection  for  one  hour — for  sixty  short  minutes 


**The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  203 

— of  existences  that  had  extended  over  a  thousand 
years — I  would  forego  all  profit  and  honor  from 
all  that  I  should  make  of  his  speech.  I  would 
take  no  share  in  the  commotion  that  would  fol- 
low throughout  the  particular  corner  of  the  earth 
that  calls  itself  "the  world."  The  thing  should 
be  put  forth  anonymously.  Nay,  I  would  make 
other  men  believe  that  they  had  written  it.  They 
would  hire  bull-hided  self-advertising  Englishmen 
to  bellow  it  abroad.  Preachers  would  found  a 
fresh  conduct  of  life  upon  it,  swearing  that  it 
was  new  and  that  they  had  lifted  the  fear  of  death 
from  all  mankind.  Every  Orientalist  in  Europe 
would  patronize  it  discursively  with  Sanskrit  and 
Pali  texts.  Terrible  women  would  invent  un- 
clean variants  of  the  men's  belief  for  the  elevation 
of  their  sisters.  Churches  and  religions  would 
war  over  it.  Between  the  hailing  and  re-starting 
of  an  omnibus  I  foresaw  the  scuffles  that  would 
arise  among  half  a  dozen  denominations  all  pro- 
fessing *'the  doctrine  of  the  True  Metempsycho- 
sis as  applied  to  the  world  and  the  New  Era"; 
and  saw,  too,  the  respectable  English  newspapers 
shying,  like  frightened  kine,  over  the  beautiful 
simplicity  of  the  tale.  The  mind  leaped  forward 
a  hundred — two  hundred — a  thousand  years.  I 
saw  with  sorrow  that  men  would  mutilate  and 
garble  the  story  ;  that  rival  creeds  would  turn  it 
upside  down  till,  at  last,  the  western  world  which 


204  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'* 

clings  to  the  dread  of  death  more  closely  than  the 
hope  of  life,  would  set  it  aside  as  an  interesting 
superstition  and  stampede  after  some  faith  so 
long  forgotten  that  it  seemed  altogether  new. 
Upon  this  I  changed  the  terms  of  the  bargain  that 
I  would  make  with  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death. 
Only  let  me  know,  let  me  write,  the  story  with 
sure  knowledge  that  1  wrote  the  truth,  and  I 
would  burn  the  manuscript  as  a  solemn  sacrifice. 
Five  minutes  after  the  last  line  was  written  I 
would  destroy  it  all.  But  I  must  be  allowed  to 
write  it  with  absolute  certainty. 

There  was  no  answer.  The  flaming  colors  of 
an  Aquarium  poster  caught  my  eye  and  1  won- 
dered whether  it  would  be  wise  or  prudent  to 
lure  Charlie  into  the  hands  of  the  professional 
mesmerist,  and  whether,  if  he  were  under  his 
power,  he  would  speak  of  his  past  lives.  If  he 
did,  and  if  people  believed  him  .  .  .  but 
Charlie  would  be  frightened  and  flustered,  or 
made  conceited  by  the  interviews.  In  either  case 
he  would  begin  to  lie,  through  fear  or  vanity. 
He  was  safest  in  my  own  hands. 

''They  are  very  funny  fools,  your  English," 
said  a  voice  at  my  elbow,  and  turning  round  I 
recognized  a  casual  acquaintance,  a  young  Bengali 
law  student,  called  Grish  Chunder,  whose  father 
had  sent  him  to  England  to  become  civilized. 
The  old  man  was  a  retired  native  official,  and  on 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  205 

an  income  of  five  pounds  a  month  contrived  to 
allow  his  son  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and 
the  run  of  his  teeth  in  a  city  where  he  could  pre- 
tend to  be  the  cadet  of  a  royal  house,  and  tell 
stories  of  the  brutal  Indian  bureaucrats  who 
ground  the  faces  of  the  poor. 

Grish  Chunder  was  a  young,  fat,  full-bodied 
Bengali  dressed  with  scrupulous  care  in  frock 
coat,  tall  hat,  light  trousers  and  tan  gloves.  But 
I  had  known  him  in  the  days  when  the  brutal 
Indian  Government  paid  for  his  university  educa- 
tion, and  he  contributed  cheap  sedition  to  Sachi 
Durpan,  and  intrigued  with  the  wives  of  his 
schoolmates. 

**That  is  very  funny  and  very  foolish,"  he  said, 
nodding  at  the  poster.  ''I  am  going  down  to 
the  Northbrook  Club.     Will  you  come  too  ?  " 

I  walked  with  him  for  some  time.  ''  You  are 
not  well,"  he  said.  "What  is  there  in  your 
mind .?    You  do  not  talk." 

"Grish  Chunder,  you've  been  too  well  educa- 
ted to  believe  in  a  God,  haven't  you  ?" 

"Oah,  yes,  here!  But  when  I  go  home  I 
must  conciliate  popular  superstition,  and  make 
ceremonies  of  purification,  and  my  women  will 
anoint  idols." 

"And  hang  up  tulsi  and  feast  the  purohit,  and 
take  you  back  into  caste  again  and  make  a  good 
khuttri  of  you  again,  you  advanced  social  Free- 


2o6  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

thinker.  And  you'll  eat  desi  food,  and  like  it  all, 
from  the  smell  in  the  courtyard  to  the  mustard  oil 
over  you." 

**  I  shall  very  much  like  it,"  said  Grish  Chunder, 
unguardedly.  "  Once  a  Hindu — alv/ays  a  Hindu. 
But  I  like  to  know  what  the  English  think  they 
know." 

*M'll  tell  you  something  that  one  Englishman 
knows.     It's  an  old  tale  to  you." 

I  began  to  tell  the  story  of  Charlie  in  English, 
but  Grish  Chunder  put  a  question  in  the  vernacular, 
and  the  history  went  forward  naturally  in  the 
tongue  best  suited  for  its  telling.  After  all  it  could 
never  have  been  told  in  English.  Grish  Chunder 
heard  me,  nodding  from  time  to  time,  and  then 
came  up  to  my  rooms  where  I  finished  the  tale. 

'' Beshak,"  he  said,  philosophically.  '' Lekin 
darwa^a  band  hai.  (Without  doubt,  but  the 
door  is  shut.)  I  have  heard  of  this  remembering 
of  previous  existences  among  my  people.  It  is 
of  course  an  old  tale  with  us,  but,  to  happen  to 
an  Englishman — a  cow-fed  Malechh — an  outcast. 
By  Jove,  that  is  most  peculiar!" 

"Outcast  yourself,  Grish  Chunder!  You  eat 
cow-beef  every  day.  Let's  think  the  thing  over. 
The  boy  remembers  his  incarnations." 

"Does  he  know  that?"  said  Grish  Chunder, 
quietly,  swinging  his  legs  as  he  sat  on  my  table. 
He  was  speaking  in  English  now. 


**The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  2(yj 

**  He  does  not  know  anything.  Would  I  speak 
to  you  if  he  did  ?    Goon!" 

"  There  is  no  going  on  at  all.  If  you  tell  that 
to  your  friends  they  will  say  you  are  mad  and 
put  it  in  the  papers.  Suppose,  now,  you  pros- 
ecute for  libel." 

**  Let's  leave  that  out  of  the  question  en- 
tirely. Is  there  any  chance  of  his  being  made 
to  speak  ?  " 

''There  is  a  chance.  Oah,  yess!  But  if  he 
spoke  it  would  mean  that  all  this  world  would 
end  now — instanto — fall  down  on  your  head. 
These  things  are  not  allowed,  }ou  know.  As  I 
said,  the  door  is  shut." 

"  Not  a  ghost  of  a  chance  ?  " 

"How  can  there  be?  You  are  a  Christi-an, 
and  it  is  forbidden  to  eat,  in  your  books,  of  the 
Tree  of  Life,  or  else  you  would  never  die.  How 
shall  you  all  fear  death  if  you  all  know  what  your 
friend  does  not  know  that  he  knows?  I  am 
afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  I  am  not  afraid  to  die, 
because  I  know  what  I  know.  You  are  not 
afraid  to  be  kicked,  but  you  are  afraid  to  die.  If 
you  were  not,  by  God!  you  English  would  be  all 
over  the  shop  in  an  hour,  upsetting  the  balances 
of  power,  and  making  commotions.  It  would 
not  be  good.  But  no  fear.  He  will  remember  a 
little  and  a  little  less,  and  he  will  call  it  dreams. 
Then  he  will  forget  altogether.     When  I  passed 


2o8  **The  Finest  Story  in  the  World' 


my  First  Arts  Examination  in  Calcutta  that  was 
all  in  the  cram-book  on  Wordsworth.  Trailing 
clouds  of  glory,  you  know." 

''This  seems  to  be  an  exception  to  the  rule." 

"There  are  no  exceptions  to  rules.  Some  are 
not  so  hard-looking  as  others,  but  they  are  all  the 
same  when  you  touch.  If  this  friend  of  yours  said 
so-and-so  and  so-and-so,  indicating  that  he  re- 
membered all  his  lost  lives,  or  one  piece  of  a  lost 
life,  he  would  not  be  in  the  bank  another  hour. 
He  would  be  what  you  called  sack  because  he 
was  mad,  and  they  would  send  him  to  an  asylum 
for  lunatics.    You  can  see  that,  my  friend." 

**  Of  course  I  can,  but  I  wasn't  thinking  of  him. 
His  name  need  never  appear  in  the  story." 

**  Ah !  I  see.  That  story  will  never  be  written. 
You  can  try." 

"I  am  going  to." 

"For  your  own  credit  and  for  the  sake  of 
money,  of  course  ?  " 

"No.  For  the  sake  of  writing  the  story.  On 
my  honor  that  will  be  all." 

"Even  then  there  is  no  chance.  You  cannot 
play  with  the  Gods.  It  is  a  very  pretty  story 
now.  As  they  say,  Let  it  go  on  that— I  mean  at 
that.     Be  quick;  he  will  not  last  long." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 

"What  I  say.  He  has  never,  so  far,  thought 
about  a  woman." 


'*  The  Finest  Story  in  the  World "  209 

''Hasn't  he,  though!"  I  remembered  some  of 
Charlie's  confidences. 

"I  mean  no  woman  has  thought  about  him. 
When  that  comes ;  bus — hogya — ail  up !  I  know. 
There  are  millions  of  women  here.  Housemaids, 
for  instance." 

I  winced  at  the  thought  of  my  story  being 
ruined  by  a  housemaid.  And  yet  nothing  was 
more  probable. 

Grish  Chunder  grinned. 

"  Yes — also  pretty  girls — cousins  of  his  house, 
and  perhaps  not  of  his  house.  One  kiss  that  he 
gives  back  again  and  remembers  will  cure  all  this 
nonsense,  or  else  "  — 

"Or  else  what }  Remember  he  does  not  know 
that  he  knows." 

"I  know  that.  Or  else,  if  nothing  happens  he 
will  become  immersed  in  the  trade  and  the  finan- 
cial speculations  like  the  rest.  It  must  be  so. 
You  can  see  that  it  must  be  so.  But  the  woman 
will  come  first,  /  think." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  Charlie 
charged  in  impetuously.  He  had  been  released 
from  office,  and  by  the  look  in  his  eyes  I  could 
see  that  he  had  come  over  for  a  long  talk;  most 
probably  with  poems  in  his  pockets.  Charlie's 
poems  were  very  wearying,  but  sometimes  they 
led  him  to  talk  about  the  galley. 

Grish  Chunder  looked  at  him  keenly  for  a  minute. 


210  *'The  Finest  Story  in  the  IVorld" 

**I  beg  your  pardon,"  Charlie  said,  uneasily; 
*'I  didn't  know  you  had  any  one  with  you." 

**  I  am  going,"  said  Grish  Chunder. 

He  drew  me  into  the  lobby  as  he  departed. 

"  That  is  your  man,"  he  said,  quickly.  "  I  tell 
you  he  will  never  speak  all  you  wish.  That  is 
rot — bosh.  But  he  would  be  most  good  to  make 
to  see  things.  Suppose  now  we  pretend  that  it 
was  only  play  " — 1  had  never  seen  Grish  Chunder 
so  excited — '*  and  pour  the  ink-pool  into  his  hand. 
Eh,  what  do  you  think  ?  I  tell  you  that  he  could 
see  anything  that  a  man  could  see.  Let  me  get 
the  ink  and  the  camphor.  He  is  a  seer  and  he 
will  tell  us  very  many  things." 

"  He  may  be  all  you  say,  but  I'm  not  going  to 
trust  him  to  your  gods  and  devils." 

'*It  will  not  hurt  him.  He  will  only  feel  a 
little  stupid  and  dull  when  he  wakes  up.  You 
have  seen  boys  look  into  the  ink-pool  before." 

"That  is  the  reason  why  I  am  not  going  to  see 
it  any  more.     You'd  better  go,  Grish  Chunder." 

He  went,  declaring  far  down  the  staircase  that 
it  was  throwing  away  my  only  chance  of  look- 
ing into  the  future. 

This  left  me  unmoved,  for  I  was  concerned  for 
the  past,  and  no  peering  of  hypnotized  boys  into 
mirrors  and  ink-pools  would  help  me  to  that. 
But  I  recognized  Grish  Chunder's  point  of  view 
and  sympathized  with  it. 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  211 

"What  a  big  black  brute  that  was!"  said 
Charlie,  when  I  returned  to  him.  "Well,  look 
here,  I've  just  done  a  poem;  did  it  instead  of 
playing  dominoes  after  lunch.     May  I  read  it.?" 

"  Let  me  read  it  to  myself." 

"Then  you  miss  the  proper  expression.  Be- 
sides, you  always  make  my  things  sound  as  if 
the  rhymes  were  all  wrong." 

"Read  it  aloud,  then.  You're  like  the  rest  of 
'em." 

Charlie  mouthed  me  his  poem,  and  it  was  not 
much  worse  than  the  average  of  his  verses.  He 
had  been  reading  his  books  faithfully,  but  he  was 
not  pleased  when  I  told  him  that  I  preferred  my 
Longfellow  undiluted  with  Charlie. 

Then  we  began  to  go  through  the  MS.  line  by 
line;  Charlie  parrying  every  objection  and  cor- 
rection with : 

"  Yes,  that  may  be  better,  but  you  don't  catch 
what  I'm  driving  at." 

Charles  was,  in  one  way  at  least,  very  like  one 
kind  of  poet. 

There  was  a  pencil  scrawl  at  the  back  of  the 
paper  and  "  What's  that  ?"  I  said. 

"Oh  that's  not  poetry  at  all.  It's  some  rot  I 
wrote  last  night  before  I  went  to  bed  and  it  was 
too  much  bother  to  hunt  for  rhymes;  so  I  made 
it  a  sort  of  blank  verse  instead." 

Here  is  Charlie's  "blank  verse": 


212  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  IVorld" 

*'  We  pulled  for  you  when  the  wind  was  against  us  and  the 
sails  were  low. 

Will  you  never  let  us  go  ? 

We  ate  bread  and  onions  when  you  took  towns  or  ran  aboard 
quickly  when  you  were  beaten  back  by  the  foe, 

The  captains  walked  up  and  down  the  deck  in  fair  weather 
singing  songs,  but  we  were  below, 

We   fainted  with  our  chins  on  the  oars  and  you  did  not  see 
that  we  were  idle  for  we  still  swung  to  and  fro. 

Will  you  tiever  let  us  go  ? 
.   The  salt  made   the   oar   handles  like  sharkskin ;  our  knees 
were  cut  to  the  bone  with  salt  cracks ;  our  hair  was  stuck  to 
our   foreheads ;  and  our   lips  were  cut  to  our  gums  and  you 
whipped  us  because  we  could  not  row. 
Will  you  never  let  us  go  ? 

But  in  a  little  time  we  shall  run  out  of  the  portholes  as  the 
water  runs  along  the  oarblade,  and  though  you  tell  the  others 
to  row  after  us  you  will  never  catch  us  till  you  catch  the  oar- 
thresh  and  tie  up  the  winds  in  the  belly  of  the  sail.     Aho ! 
Will  you  never  let  us  go  ?  " 

*'  H'm.     What's  oar-thresh,  Charlie  ?  " 

''The  water  washed  up  by  the  oars.  That's 
the  sort  of  song  they  might  sing  in  the  galley,  y' 
know.  Aren't  you  ever  going  to  finish  that  story 
and  give  me  some  of  the  profits  ?" 

"  It  depends  on  yourself.  If  you  had  only  told 
me  more  about  your  hero  in  the  first  instance  it 
might  have  been  finished  by  now.  You're  so 
hazy  in  your  notions." 

"  I  only  want  to  give  you  the  general  notion  of 
it—the  knocking  about  from  place  to  place  and 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  215 

the  fighting  and  all  that.  Can't  you  fill  in  the 
rest  yourself  ?  Make  the  hero  save  a  girl  on  a 
pirate-galley  and  marry  her  or  do  something." 

''You're  a  really  helpful  collaborator.  I  sup- 
pose the  hero  went  through  some  few  adventures 
before  he  married." 

''Well  then,  make  him  a  very  artful  card— a 
low  sort  of  man — a  sort  of  political  man  who 
went  about  making  treaties  and  breaking  them— 
a  black-haired  chap  who  hid  behind  the  mast 
when  the  fighting  began." 

"But  you  said  the  other  day  that  he  was  red- 
haired." 

"I  couldn't  have.  Make  him  black-haired  of 
course.     You've  no  imagination." 

Seeing  that  I  had  just  discovered  the  entire 
principles  upon  which  the  half-memory  falsely 
called  imagination  is  based,  1  felt  entitled  to 
laugh,  but  forbore,  for  the  sake  of  the  tale. 

"You're  right.  You're  the  man  with  imagi- 
nation. A  black-haired  chap  in  a  decked  ship," 
I  said. 

"No,  an  open  ship — like  a  big  boat." 

This  was  maddening. 

"Your  ship  has  been  built  and  designed, 
ciosed  and  decked  in;  you  said  so  yourself,"  I 
protested. 

"No,  no,  not  that  ship.  That  was  open,  or 
half  decked  because —    By  Jove  you're   right. 


214  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

You  made  me  think  of  the  hero  as  a  red-haired 
chap.  Of  course  if  he  were  red,  the  ship  would 
be  an  open  one  with  painted  sails." 

Surely,  I  thought,  he  would  remember  now 
that  he  had  served  in  two  galleys  at  least — in  a 
three-decked  Greek  one  under  the  black-haired 
''political  man,"  and  again  in  a  Viking's  open 
sea-serpent  under  the  man  ''red  as  a  red  bear" 
who  went  to  Markland.  The  devil  prompted  me 
to  speak. 

"Why,  'of  course,'  Charlie.^"  said  I. 

"  I  don't  know.    Are  you  making  fun  of  me  ?  " 

The  current  was  broken  for  the  time  being.  I 
took  up  a  notebook  and  pretended  to  make 
many  entries  in  it. 

"It's  a  pleasure  to  work  with  an  imaginative 
chap  like  yourself,"  I  said,  after  a  pause.  "The 
way  that  you've  brought  out  the  character  of  the 
hero  is  simply  wonderful." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  answered,  with  a 
pleased  flush.  "I  often  tell  myself  that  there's 
more  in  me  than  my  mo—  than  people  think." 

"  There's  an  enormous  amount  in  you." 

"Then,  won't  you  let  me  send  an  essay  on 
The  Ways  of  Bank  Clerks  to  Tit-Bits,  and  get 
the  guinea  prize?" 

"That  wasn't  exactly  what  I  meant,  old  fel- 
low: perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  wait  a  little 
and  go  ahead  with  the  galley-story." 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World''  215 

''  Ah,  but  I  sha'n't  get  the  credit  of  that.  Tit- 
Bits  would  publish  my  name  and  address  if  I 
win.     What  are  you  grinning  at }   They  would.'' 

'*I  know  it.  Suppose  you  go  for  a  walk.  I 
want  to  look  through  my  notes  about  our  story." 

Now  this  reprehensible  youth  who  left  me,  a 
little  hurt  and  put  back,  might  for  aught  he  or  I 
knew  have  been  one  of  the  crew  of  the  Argo — 
had  been  certainly  slave  or  comrade  to  Thorfm 
Karlsefne.  Therefore  he  was  deeply  interested 
in  guinea  competitions.  Remembering  what 
Grish  Chunder  had  said  I  laughed  aloud.  The 
Lords  of  Life  and  Death  would  never  allow 
Charlie  Mears  to  speak  with  full  knowledge  of 
his  pasts,  and  I  must  even  piece  out  what  he  had 
told  me  with  my  own  poor  inventions  while 
Charlie  wrote  of  the  ways  of  bank-clerks. 

I  got  together  and  placed  on  one  file  all  my 
notes;  and  the  net  result  was  not  cheering.  I 
read  them  a  second  time.  There  was  nothing 
that  might  not  have  been  compiled  at  second- 
hand from  other  people's  books — except,  per- 
haps, the  story  of  the  fight  in  the  harbor.  The 
adventures  of  a  Viking  had  been  written  many 
times  before;  the  history  of  a  Greek  galley-slave 
was  no  new  thing,  and  though  I  wrote  both, 
who  could  challenge  or  confirm  the  accuracy  of 
my  details  ?  I  might  as  well  tell  a  tale  of  two 
thousand  years  hence.     The  Lords  of  Life  and 


2i6  **The  Finest  Story  in  the  World  ' 

Death  were  as  cunning  as  Grish  Chunder  had 
hinted.  They  would  allow  nothing  to  escape 
that  might  trouble  or  make  easy  the  minds  of 
men.  Though  I  was  convinced  of  this,  yet  I 
could  not  leave  the  tale  alone.  Exaltation  fol- 
lowed reaction,  not  once,  but  twenty  times  in 
the  next  few  weeks.  My  moods  varied  with  the 
March  sunlight  and  flying  clouds.  By  night  or 
in  the  beauty  of  a  spring  morning  I  perceived 
that  I  could  write  that  tale  and  shift  continents 
thereby.  In  the  wet,  windy  afternoons,  I  saw 
that  the  tale  might  indeed  be  written,  but  would 
be  nothing  more  than  a  faked,  false-varnished, 
sham-rusted  piece  of  Wardour  Street  work  at 
the  end.  Then  I  blessed  Charlie  in  many  ways 
— though  it  was  no  fault  of  his.  He  seemed  to 
be  busy  with  prize  competitions,  and  I  saw  less 
and  less  of  him  as  the  weeks  went  by  and  the 
earth  cracked  and  grew  ripe  to  spring,  and  the 
buds  swelled  in  their  sheaths.  He  did  not  care 
to  read  or  talk  of  what  he  had  read,  and  there 
was  a  new  ring  of  self-assertion  in  his  voice.  I 
hardly  cared  to  remind  him  of  the  galley  when 
we  met;  but  Charlie  alluded  to  it  on  every  oc- 
casion, always  as  a  story  from  which  money  was 
to  be  made. 

'M  think  I  deserve  twenty-five  per  cent.,  don't 
I,  at  least,"  he  said,  with  beautiful  frankness. 
**  I  supplied  all  the  ideas,  didn't  I  ?  " 


"The  Finest  Story  in  the  World  21'^ 

This  greediness  for  silver  was  a  new  side  in  his 
nature.  I  assumed  that  it  had  been  developed  in 
the  City,  where  Charlie  was  picking  up  the  curi- 
ous nasal  drawl  of  the  underbred  City  man. 

**  When  the  thing's  done  we'll  talk  about  it.  I 
can't  make  anything  of  it  at  present.  Red-haired 
or  black-haired  hero  are  equally  diificult."^ 

He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  staring  at  the  red 
coals.  "I  can't  understand  what  you  find  so 
difficult.  It's  all  as  clear  as  mud  to  me,"  he  re- 
plied. A  jet  of  gas  puffed  out  between  the  bars, 
took  light  and  whistled  softly.  "Suppose  we 
take  the  red-haired  hero's  adventures  first,  from 
the  time  that  he  came  south  to  my  galley  and 
captured  it  and  sailed  to  the  Beaches." 

I  knew  better  now  than  to  interrupt  Charlie.  I 
was  out  of  reach  of  pen  and  paper,  and  dared 
not  move  to  get  them  lest  1  should  break  the  cur- 
rent. The  gas-jet  puffed  and  whinnied,  Charlie's 
voice  dropped  almost  to  a  whisper,  and  he  told 
a  tale  of  the  sailing  of  an  open  galley  to  Furdur- 
strandi,  of  sunsets  on  the  open  sea,  seen  under 
the  curve  of  the  one  sail  evening  after  evening 
when  the  galley's  beak  was  notched  into  the 
centre  of  the  sinking  disc,  and  "we  sailed  by 
that  for  we  had  no  other  guide,"  quoth  Charlie. 
He  spoke  of  a  landing  on  an  island  and  explora- 
tions in  its  woods,  where  the  crew  killed  three 
men  whom  they  found  asleep  under  the  pines. 


2i8  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World" 

Their  ghosts,  Charlie  said,  followed  the  galley, 
swimming  and  choking  in  the  water,  and  the 
crew  cast  lots  and  threw  one  of  their  number 
overboard  as  a  sacrifice  to  the  strange  gods  whom 
they  had  offended.  Then  they  ate  sea-weed 
when  their  provisions  failed,  and  their  legs 
swelled,  and  their  leader,  the  red-haired  man, 
killed  two  rowers  who  mutinied,  and  after  a  year 
spent  among  the  woods  they  set  sail  for  their 
own  country,  and  a  wind  that  never  failed  car- 
ried them  back  so  safely  that  they  all  slept  at 
night.  This,  and  much  more  Charlie  told.  Some- 
times the  voice  fell  so  low  that  I  could  not  catch 
the  words,  though  every  nerve  was  on  the  strain. 
He  spoke  of  their  leader,  the  red-haired  man,  as 
a  pagan  speaks  of  his  God;  for  it  was  he  who 
cheered  them  and  slew  them  impartially  as  he 
thought  best  for  their  needs;  and  it  was  he  who 
steered  them  for  three  days  among  floating  ice, 
each  floe  crowded  with  strange  beasts  that  '*  tried 
to  sail  with  us,"  said  Charlie,  "  and  we  beat  them 
back  with  the  handles  of  the  oars." 

The  gas-jet  went  out,  a  burned  coal  gave  way, 
and  the  fire  settled  down  with  a  tiny  crash  to  the 
bottom  of  the  grate.  Charlie  ceased  speaking, 
and  I  said  no  word. 

**By  Jove!"  he  said,  at  last,  shaking  his  head. 
'*  I've  been  staring  at  the  fire  till  I'm  dizzy.  What 
was  I  going  to  say  ?  " 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  219 

"Something  about  the  galley." 

"I  remember  now.  It's  25  per  cent,  of  the 
profits,  isn't  it?" 

"It's  anything  you  like  when  I've  done  the 
tale." 

"I  wanted  to  be  sure  of  that.  I  must  go 
now.  I've — I've  an  appointment."  And  he  left 
me. 

Had  my  eyes  not  been  held  I  might  have 
known  that  that  broken  muttering  over  the  fire 
was  the  swan-song  of  Charlie  Mears.  But  I 
thought  it  the  prelude  to  fuller  revelation.  At 
last  and  at  last  I  should  cheat  the  Lords  of  Life 
and  Death! 

When  next  Charlie  came  to  me  I  received  him 
with  rapture.  He  was  nervous  and  embarrassed, 
but  his  eyes  were  very  full  of  light,  and  his  lips 
a  little  parted. 

"I've  done  a  poem,"  he  said;  and  then, 
quickly:  "  it's  the  best  I've  ever  done.  Read  it." 
He  thrust  it  into  my  hand  and  retreated  to  the 
window. 

1  groaned  inwardlyo  It  would  be  the  work  of 
half  an  hour  to  criticise — that  is  to  say  praise — 
the  poem  sufficiently  to  please  Charlie.  Then  I 
had  good  reason  to  groan,  for  Charlie,  discarding 
his  favorite  centipede  metres,  had  launched  into 
shorter  and  choppier  verse,  and  verse  with  a  mo- 
tive at  the  back  of  it.     This  is  what  I  read: 


220  ''The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'* 

**  The  day  is  most  fair,  the  cheery  wind 

Halloos  behind  the  hill, 
Where  he  bends  the  wood  as  seemeth  good, 

And  the  sapling  to  his  will ! 
Riot  O  wind ;  there  is  that  in  my  blood 

That  would  not  have  thee  still ! 

"  She  gave  me  herself,  O  Earth,  O  Sky ; 
Grey  sea,  she  is  mine  alone  ! 
Let  the  sullen  boulders  hear  my  cry, 
And  rejoice  tho'  they  be  but  stone ! 

«  Mine !  I  have  won  her  O  good  brown  earth, 
Make  merry !     'Tis  hard  on  Spring ; 

Make  merry ;  my  love  is  doubly  worth 
All  worship  your  fields  can  bring  ! 

Let  the  hind  that  tills  you  feel  my  mirth 
At  the  early  harrowing." 

*' Yes,  it's  the  early  harrowing,  past  a  doubt," 
I  said,  with  a  dread  at  my  heart.  Charlie  smiled, 
but  did  not  answer. 

*'  Red  cloud  of  the  sunset,  tell  it  abroad ; 
I  am  victor.     Greet  me  O  Sun, 
Dominant  master  and  absolute  lord 
Over  the  soul  of  one  !  " 

"  Well  ?"  said  Charlie,  looking  over  my  shoul- 
der. 

1  thought  it  far  from  well,  and  very  evil  indeed, 
when  he  silently  laid  a  photograph  on  the  paper 
— the  photograph  of  a  girl  with  a  curly  head,  and 
a  foolish  slack  mouth. 


*'The  Finest  Story  in  the  World"  221 

''Isn't  it— isn't  it  wonderful?"  he  whispered, 
pink  to  the  tips  of  his  ears,  wrapped  in  the  rosy 
mystery  of  first  love.  *'I  didn't  know;  I  didn't 
think— it  came  like  a  thunderclap." 

**  Yes.  It  comes  Hke  a  thunderclap.  Are  you 
very  happy,  Charlie?" 

* '  My  God— she— she  loves  me !  "  He  sat  down 
repeating  the  last  words  to  himself.  I  looked  at 
the  hairless  face,  the  narrow  shoulders  already 
bowed  by  desk-work,  and  wondered  when, 
where,  and  how  he  had  loved  in  his  past  lives. 

"What  will  your  mother  say  ?"  1  asked,  cheer- 
fully. 

*'  1  don't  care  a  damn  what  she  says." 

At  twenty  the  things  for  which  one  does  not 
care  a  damn  should,  properly,  be  many,  but  one 
must  not  include  mothers  in  the  list.  I  told  him 
this  gently;  and  he  described  Her,  even  as  Adam 
must  have  described  to  the  newly  named  beasts 
the  glory  and  tenderness  and  beauty  of  Eve. 
Incidentally  1  learned  that  She  was  a  tobacconist's 
assistant  with  a  weakness  for  pretty  dress,  and 
had  told  him  four  or  five  times  already  that  She 
had  never  been  kissed  by  a  man  before. 

Charlie  spoke  on  and  on,  and  on;  while  I,  sepa- 
rated from  him  by  thousands  of  years,  was  consid- 
ering the  beginnings  of  things.  Now  I  understood 
why  the  Lords  of  Life  and  Death  shut  the  doors 
so  carefully  behind  us.     It  is  that  we  may  not  re- 


222  "The  Finest  Story  in  the  World'' 

member  our  first  wooings.  Were  it  not  so,  our 
world  would  be  without  inhabitants  in  a  hundred 
years. 

"Now,  about  that  galley-story,"  I  said,  still 
more  cheerfully,  in  a  pause  in  the  rush  of  the 
speech. 

Charlie  looked  up  as  though  he  had  been  hit. 
"  The  galley — what  galley  .^  Good  heavens,  don't 
joke,  man!  This  is  serious!  You  don't  know 
how  serious  it  is ! " 

Grish  Chunder  was  right.  Charlie  had  tasted 
the  love  of  woman  that  kills  remembrance,  and 
the  finest  story  in  the  world  would  never  be 
written. 


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